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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



MEG: A PASTORAL. 



OTHER POEMS. 



ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON. 



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BOSTON : 
LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. 
NEW YORK: 
CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM. 

1879. 



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Copyright, 1878, 
BY LEE AND SHEPARD. 

All rights reserved. 



Franklin Press: 

ElectrotyPed and Printed by 

Randy Avery, &° Co., 

Boston. 



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TO 

&xel Carl SoJjatt ffittstafsou, 

IN TOKEN OF 



PREFACE. 



The three poems, " Meg, a Pastoral," the tribute to 
"William Cullen Bryant," and "Not Peace, but a 
Sword, a Fantasy," are new, and appear for the first 
time in print in this volume. 

The other verses are such selection from my previous 
work as I have been led to hope — from the friendly 
comment of the press at the time of their first appear- 
ance, and from the opinions and advice of friends — 
might find a second welcome. 

It will be seen, from the few notes of explanation and 
acknowledgment appearing in Appendix, that I am in- 
debted for the privilege of making this collection to the 
courtesy of Messrs. Harper & Brothers, and the editors 
of various other periodicals. 

ZADEL B. GUSTAFSON. 

5 Linden Ave., Boston Highlands, Mass., 
September, 1878. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Meg: a Pastoral 9 

William Cullen Bryant 69 

"Not Peace, but a Sword" 86 

Little Martin Craghan . . . ■ . . . 97 

Love's Home 107 

The Children's Night no 

The Prisoner 163 

The Lyric of the Lilies 176 

Harp of the North . 188 

On the Sands 198 

The Voice of Christmas Past 224 

Evening Hymn to Whittier 227 

Love and Life 231 

The Factory-Boy 234 

The Nemesis of Luxury 237 

7 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

In the Garden . 240 

The Blind Man's Sight 244 

Maud's Answer . . 246 

Flower of May? -251 

The Silent Answer 258 

Morning 264 

Katie, the Belle of Glenco' 266 

Mother's Winter-Night Song 269 

My Father's House . . . . . . . . 270 

Faith 279 



MEG: A PASTORAL. 

THE WILLOW. 

Meg's at the window, leaning out. 

Meg is beautiful, very : 
A smile just blooms into dimples about 

A mouth like a double cherry. 

For, see ! beyond the meadow-stile 
Her tall, broad-shouldered lover 

Is coming down the foot-worn aisle 
That winds through reddening clover. 

Trimming an osier wand he comes : 
Is it for that he lingers ? 



io meg: a pastoral. 

Low throbbings, faint as of fairy drums, 

As round him the honey-bee wheels and hums, 

Reverberate over 

The bee-beset clover. 
Absorbed he seems, and slowly he comes : 
The while in supple fingers 

The willow he bends, 

He covertly sends 
A critical glance at the rich young face, 
That in simple shrine of a rustic bower, 
With radiant eyes and tropical bloom, 
Flames out of the mellow, delicate gloom 
Like a single exquisite cardinal-flower. 
The willow he bends, and his loitering pace 
Gains subtly an increase of indolent grace : 
For he sees, well pleased, the smile fading out, 
And the dimples dissolve in a quiver of doubt ; 
Looks up at last with a start and a smile : — 



MEG I A PASTORAL. I I 

" Why, Meg ! pretty love, were you there all the 
while ? " 

And then, as under the window he stands, 
He murmurs, with seeming of honest surprise, 
" But why, scarlet lily, are tears in your eyes ? 
And why do they tremble, those beautiful hands?" 
Then, out of his negligence, swift as a flash 
He clasps her hands, and his silky mustache 
Just brushes her cheek : her shy mouth feels his, 
Pressed close in a lingering, passionate kiss. 
And half she restrains him with downcast eye, 
While yielding in heavenly modesty. 

" See ! here is a wand : 

To get it for you 
I dethroned a young bird, 

Its nest cut in two ; 



1 2 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

For the longest lithe wand 
Its meshes ran through. 

Such a tumult of wings, 

And confusion of cries, 

As they twittered and flew, — 

The pretty brown things, — 
And kept me in view 

With their startled black eyes ! 

"But's what's a bird's-nest, 
When a lover's in quest 

Of a gift for a sweetheart like you ? 
'Twas a pity ; but, then, 
They'll build it again, 

And forget all their silly ado. 
Pray, sweet, guard it well : 
They say there's a spell 

In the willow, to keep lovers true." 



meg: a pastoral. 13 

She, receiving it, sighs, 

Yet so softly replies, 
There scarce seems reproach in the words : 

" I thank you, dear Hugh ; 

But I'm sorry it grew 
In the nest of those dear little birds." 

Stalwart Hugh, as he stands beneath, 

Handsome, indolent, gay, 
In silence looks through the jasmine-wreath 

At Meg in a curious way ; 
Suffers his gaze to deepen and burn 
Ere he softly pleads, " Give me in return 

One bit of your jasmine spray." 

Leaning to give it, a sudden red, 

Deep as the flame of the cardinal-flower, 
Glows in her cheek ; for she hears a tread, 



14 meg: a pastoral. 

Even, elastic, firm as the beat 

Of a loyal heart in a bosom sweet, 

Coming! To Meg in her jasmine bower 
A hat is raised from a sun-browned head. 
The forehead uncovered is white and strong : 
The rich bass murmur of harvest-song, 
Just broken for one grave smile, goes on. 
Hugh, frowning, " So that is your Corydon ! " 
"Nay, that's not his name: he's only John." 

THE DANCE. 

Annelind, fair coquette and belle, 
Taps her foot to the music's swell ; 
Calls to Meg with a nonchalant air, 
Inwardly piqued to see how fair 
This farmer's daughter in simple gown, 
With modest maidenly eyes cast down, — 



meg: a pastoral. 15 

Verily almost as fair as she, 
Heiress of wealth and pedigree. 

" Dear Meg, pray fasten this on my arm : 
The clasp goes thus in the pendent charm. 
'Tis a pretty bawble, something new, 
Out of the common ; its giver, too, 
An uncommonly handsome fellow, - — Hugh. 
You awkward thing ! in your haste you hurt. 
They say, — just fix this loop in my skirt, — 
They say that he's an enchanting flirt." 

" Sweet Annelind, hear me 

One moment, I beg! 
'Tis beneath one so fair 

To be jealous of Meg. 
She has handsome black eyes, 

And a prettyish air ; 



1 6 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

Her ankle is trim 

For a dairy-maid's leg. 

But she's only a rustic : 
I care not a peg 

Who wins or who wears 
Such a field-flower as Meg. 

" Give me the queen lily, — 

The lily that grows 
On a forehead that seems 

The white arch of repose. 
The dark blowzy curl 
Of an apple-cheeked girl 

May charm for an hour ; 
But Annelind's eyes, 
Her smiles and her sighs, 

Have permanent power." 



meg: a pastoral. 17 

With a toss of blonde tresses, 

And lip that denies 
What her eye half confesses, 

She coldly replies: — 
" Methinks 'twere scarce prudent 
To love a gay student : 

All scholars are false." 

"Nay, Annelind!— all?" 
Hugh, laughing, breathes low, 
"One exception, you know" — 

" Hush ! there is the waltz ! " 
She turns with a glide, — 
It is Meg at her side ; 
Flashes downward a glance, — 
" Don't dance the round dance ? 

Shy little brown mouse ! 
Well, then, here's my shawl, — 
You'll keep it ; and this, 



1 8 meg: a pastoral. 

You dear thing, for a kiss." 

And they wheel to the Strauss. 

With laughter and jest, and the clinking of glass, 
The dancers from dancing to banqueting pass. 
Fair Annelind, dainty and cool coquette, 
Holding her moth in gay dalliance yet, 
Turns for a moment to murmur " How nice ! " 
To a pair of mustachios presenting an ice. 
That instant Hugh's glance, mating slyness and 

ease, 
Goes questing with lilt like a leaf's on the 

breeze ; 
Then flashes and settles. With graceful regret 
Hugh yields to mustachios his place by coquette, 
With a flattering air of submissive defeat, 
And " Thanks for a favor short-lived, but so 

sweet ! " 



meg: a pastoral. 19 

For "Phyllis" is standing, and " Corydon " 
Right gallantly putting her wrappings on. 
" Confound him, the fellow ! he has an eye 
Like a star, set deep in his white brow's sky : 
Against her mantle his large brown hand, 
Through labor's mask, shows the mould of 
command. 
Can I be jealous?" — with self-mocking sigh, — 

" And of this homespun tiller of land ? 
She will not look up. But I saw her start : 
She knows I am coming : her soft girl's heart 
Flutters just now like a frightened bird. 
Ah, John ! talk on ; but she hears not a word. 
How she can hearken this John shall see. — 
Dear Meg, come out in the garden with me. 
The air's like a bath of eau de cologne; 
And there, love, you know, we can be all 
alone." 



20 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

To John her look is like evening light, 

So gentle, so clear, as she says " Good-night," 

And turns with Hugh ; while a rising glow 

Makes rosy the pale of an hour ago. 

"God bless her, and give her life's very best!" 

Is the prayer love prays in John's simple breast ; 

" For the best for her, whatever it be, 

As I love her truly, is best for me." 

IN THE GARDEN. 

Out in the garden, through perfume and dew 
Of flower-dusky borders, she walks with Hugh. 
He softly whispers a hundred sweet things, 
More light than the dust on butterfly-wings ; 
Jestingly envies her knight of the plough ; 
Breathes every thing fond, save an honest vow. 
He pauses, — for here is the garden-gate, — 
And bends to kiss her ; but she, crying " Wait ! " 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 2 1 

Shrinks from him swiftly a step, and then straight 
Lifts her young face, so the moon risen late 
Shines on it full. Hugh, looking, is dumb. 
"The moment for truth between us is come. 
I am not learned : I could count on my hand 
The things in books which I understand. 
But the heart is apt : in an hour it learns much. 
Nay! — never again will I suffer your touch!" 

Her low, gentle voice was never more clear; 
And her look is the flash of Ithuriers spear: — 
"To you it was charm for an idle hour 
To win or to wither the poor 'field-flower,' 
And boast of it ! Ah ! yet it might be true, 
It could love and be loved by nobler than you. 
I speak not in scorn : for scorning is small ; 
Would be lost in the place where loving was 
all. 



22 MEG ! A PASTORAL. 

And you see, not in pride, 'tis falsest shame 
Deems trust is folly, and love a blame. 
Oh ! know this for truth, — not pride and not feat- 
Can breathe in love's heaven-pure atmosphere. 
It is more than willow will keep love true, 
And less. Oh, God teach you ! and farewell, 
Hugh ! " 

She turns, and is gone. Through the meadow-grass 
That leans before her to let her pass, 
Through open field, and through maple-shade, 
He watches her mantle glimmer and fade. 

THE COTTAGE. 

At home, Meg's father, the Farmer Brown, 
Sits dozing over the news from town. 
The mother sleeps, and the house is still. 
It might be a moonbeam crossing the sill, 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 23 

Meg enters so lightly in her white gown, 
And just at the farmer's knees sinks down ; 
Twice whispers, " Father ! " He starts, and 

stands 
Roused, but hushed by her trembling hands, 
And lifts her panting, while brief amaze 
Deepens to pain in his loving gaze. 

He sits, and draws her upon his knees : 
She is shaken and cold and wan, he sees ; 
Her sweet dark eyes they are strained and wild. 
''Father, you love me! — you love your child!" 
She yearningly murmurs close to his ear. 
He leans his cheek to the dear brown head. 
"Then take me this night away from here: 
Let me go to my aunt in my mother's stead/' 
A moment's silence : the father's heart 
Plunges as though it would burst apart. 



24 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

"Has any one — wronged thee?" he moans at 

last. 
" I am thy father : thou knowest well 
I will love thee, whatever thou hast to tell." 
A moment his darling clasps him fast; 
Then lifts, with lovely passionate grace, 
Her clear eyes full to her father's face. 
The beaming looks of those beautiful eyes, 
They tell him his darling is pure and true 
As any daisy that drinks the dew ; 
For the pure in heart in the heart are wise. 

" But, father," — the sweet eyes droop again, — 
"There has been blindness, and there is pain. 
To-night it seemed as if life and death, 
With all they mean, in one burning breath 
Made me a flame to shrivel a lie ; 
But, oh ! in that burning I seemed to die. 



meg: a pastoral. 25 

It took all my strength to turn away ; 
For all at once I longed so to stay, 
I could have cast myself at his feet, 
And craved forgiveness, and found it sweet. 

" Oh ! how could this be, when I knew him 

base ? " 
In piteous shame she hides her face. 
Then these words, pantingly breathed in his 

ear, — 
" I had trust in myself ; but now — I fear, 

If I stay, perhaps I could not — keep right. 
I would try ; but, father, those words you say, — 
You know, in the mornings, when you pray, — 
* Lead us not,' and, ' From evil deliver ! ' " 
The white locks down on the brown waves 
quiver : 
" Amen ! My darling shall go to-night." 



26 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

No vision of scythe and ripe-bending grain ! 
Ah ! more than his stock, or than harvest gain, 
Is his innocent darling's need to him ; 
And his heart is grateful unto the brim. 
He rises, and lays his darling down 
In the old chair's shadow broad and brown : 
And the wide white moonbeam over the floor, 
Following, waits at the bedroom-door, 
As if it were set to keep ward and watch ; 
There climbs the dark panel, and gilds the 
latch. 

As mothers, lovingest martyrs of earth, 
Sink into swift sleep betwixt pangs of birth, 
So, almost between the beats of her heart, 
Meg's eyelids droop, and her sweet lips part ; 
From their strenuous clasp her fingers release, 
And passion fades dreamlessly into peace. 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 2J 

The father and mother come softly out : 
One look at their child, and one at each other ; 
Then he to the door, and the pale-faced mother 
Nods with a smile ; for the loving are strong/ 
She gathers her darling's garments about, 
And, folding them, hums an old cradle-song. 

Then the sound of hoofs and wheels, and a neigh. 
Meg starts : " O mother ! " she cries, and is 

pressed 
In speechless embrace to that mother's breast. 
Each feels the full pledge of the mute caress, 
And of meeting hands, in the change of dress. 
Then all is ready : the cloud-dappled gray 
Flashes over with red as they ride away. 

The dawn-flushes deepen to sunrise gold, 

And the mother's tasks for the morn are o'er. 



28 meg: a pastoral. 

Farther and higher, till many hours old, 

The sun beats down at the cottage-door. 
She had touched the keys of the ancient spinet, 

Only to pause with a shivering chill : 
Far off were those days when its chords were 

sweet, 
And she had kept time with her dancing feet. 
Up stairs the twitter of Meg's brown linnet, 

A trill and flutter of birds at the sill ; 

But the day is long, and the cottage still, 
With no step or voice of her darling in it. 

So deep in the breadth of the farmer's chair 
The mother sits sewing with listless air. 
As the clock ticks on, and the needle flies, 
Comes often a mist in the mother's eyes ; 
While scenes of the past with the present seem 
To mingle, and move in pathetic dream. 



MEG ! A PASTORAL. 29 

She starts : for she sees a long shadow pass ; 
Hears the soft swishing of steps in the grass. _ 
" Is't father so soon ? nay, it must be John," 
She thinks, as her eyes from the glaring sun 
She shades with one hand, and the door sets 

wide. 
Not " father," nor "John," who in youth's fresh 

pride, 
Most royally fashioned of Nature's grace, 
Stands on the threshold with uncovered head, 
Flashing strong eyesf in the mother's pale 

face. 
Pale was her face; but her eyes were burning. 
" So thou art the man ! and thou comest to 

me ! " 
She thought : but she caught, as the stranger 

smiled, 
Some look in his face of her long-lost child ; 



30 meg: a pastoral. 

And through her dumb anger smote a hot 

yearning, — 
" My boy, had he lived, might have looked like 

thee." 
And thus, with mixed meanings that did amaze, 
She pierced him with long and hungering gaze, 
That marked the firm limbs, the breadth, 

strength, and height, 
The brow and eye splendor, the locks thick and 

bright, 
The reverent air in which mothers delight. 

Then, slowly and coldly averting her eye, 

She turned. " Is your daughter within ? " he 

said. 
" My daughter is with the sick or the dead, 
As God may decide," was the stern reply. 
He blushed as one smitten : his very brow 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 3 1 

Grew dark with that blush as he spake more 

low : — 
"Will you tell her I came to say ' Good-by' ?" 
" Good-by ! " The scene of the morning came 

back, — 
Her child's tender heart on love's fiery rack ; 
Her sweet, patient darling, her poor wounded 

dove ! 
And here was the light-tongued assassin of love! 
She turned on him, kindling with blinding scorn : 
The threshold was vacant, the stranger gone ; 
And the sun beat down on the glistening stone. 

THE SILENT WOOING. 

Oh ! pleasant it is from the wind and snow 
To enter the hearth-fire's cheerful glow ; 
To change the stars of the cold winter's night 
For eyes that beam with love's welcoming light; 



32 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

To see the fresh plate and the wholesome fare, 
And the cordial hands that push forward the 

chair. 
John thinks, with a smile and a silent tongue, 
(For thought with him is so swift, that speech 
Is apt to lag blushing just out of reach,) 
That "home " is all poets have dreamed or sung. 
" And * home ' — will it ever be mine to say 

i home ' ? 
Will she whom I love, when I ask her, come ? " 

Meg gently comes near, and offers the bread. 
John flashes one glance at the lovely bent head : 
" Will God be so good, so blessedly kind ? 
Ah! would I could see all that moves in her 

mind, — 
If she is at peace, my beautiful one, 
And no lasting hurt to that true heart done ! 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 33 

'Twas bitter to see, when my darling returned, 
How deep the hot flame in her heart had burned. 
Oh ! bitter, yet sweet, the generous care 
She took to be busy and cheerful, and seem 
As if there had been no broken love-dream ; 
Disguising, in song and laughter and jest, 
The pain which no one could help her to bear. 

" My heart like a hammer is beating my breast, 

Because she is near ; but she does not sigh, 

Nor falter, nor flutter in happy unrest. 

It was not thus when that other stood by : 

I have seen her start from her maiden repose, 

And blush at his step as an opening rose. 

It was hard : but yet, God knows, I was glad 

At sight of the joy my poor darling had ; 

And the pain that came after was worse to see 

Than that she had never a thought of me. 



34 ME G : A PASTORAL. 

" More quiet she is than in olden days ; 
But there's peace, content, in her gentle ways : 
Or is it that what I would have her be 
Paints with my wishes the signs I see ? " 
"What are you dreaming of, John?" says she. 
" You're frowning and smiling at such a rate, 
And crumbling the bread all over your plate!" 
John thinks, " How blessed to have her so 

near, 
Her eyes meeting mine, untroubled and clear ! 

" What if I answered her straight and true, — 
Clasping her close, as I long to do, — 
' I am dreaming with all my heart of you ' ? 
My touch and my words might break the dear 

calm 
Of the heart I would die to shelter from harm. 
Oh, I long to tell her ! If I could know 



meg: a pastoral. 35 

She could bear to hear, and would understand 
How I love her more for that innocent woe, 
And put my whole heart in her little hand ! 

" But what my eyes to all others confess 
She looks in them daily, and does not guess. 
Looks at me ! yes, but with only her eyes : 
Her heart, her thought, in some other world lies. 
Where are her thoughts when she seems so far, 
With the distance and stillness of a star ? 
She has known me always. I am as the shelf, 
The table, or chair, or part of herself ; 
As the custom and warmth she feels from the 

fire, 
Too near for remembrance, too sure for desire. 
Has she forgotten, or will she forget ? 
One word too soon might be endless regret. 
At least she is tranquil. Not yet, not yet ! " 



36 MEG I A PASTORAL. 

Thus strives John's mind in the swift-flitting 

space 
Of the flush that sweeps over his strong, dark face ; 
And, as he sits talking of North and South, — 
For a spirited man is the Farmer Brown, 
And he plies John closely for news from town, — 
John's eyes, with other thoughts than his mouth, 
Wander away to the light-tripping feet, 
And quick little hands, making every thing neat. 
And his heart heaves high when Meg takes her 

seat 
In her favorite place at her father's feet, 
And, laying her shining head on his knee, 
Sinks deep in a restful revery. 
Roused from her musing, she listens at last : 
Is it silent John who is speaking so fast ? 
Unseen in the shadow, her soft earnest eyes 
Regard him intently in quaint surprise. 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 37 

"Why, neighbor, I never cut down a tree, 
And looked on it, lying with never a sound, 
Save a murmur of leaves, like half-heard song, 
All its broad, brave branches trailing the ground, 
A tangle of nests its brown forks among, 
But I felt as if I'd done wickedly. 
But to shoot at men, and fell and hew them, 
And think it a noble thing that I slew them ! 
I was with mother when Stephen was born : 

She gave him life, and, so giving, she died, 
Holding my hand with a smile : in the morn 

The costly life flickered out at her side. 
Rebels I scorn ! — yet, marshalled before them, 
I should see men ; see mothers who bore them ! 
The brave birth-anguish ! Oh, never a thrust 
Of mine could level such work in the dust. 
I'd die at my post, but never touch life 
So precious to mother, or sweetheart, or wife ! " 



38 MEG I A PASTORAL. 

"Well, John," said the farmer, "each man is his 

own, 
And a healthy man doesn't long for death : 
The heart in my breast ain't exactly a stone, 

But I'd kill a rebel at every breath ! 
If worst comes to worst, — and it looks like it 

now, — 
I'd serve the old flag as never the plough ; 
I'd jump at your place, and you might stay here!" 
For good Farmer Brown, it was almost a sneer. 

But Meg cried, "Father, you don't understand!" 
And rose with a gesture of exquisite grace. 

"You know he's no coward!" and caught John's 
hand, 
Kissed it, and flashed such a light in his face, 

That John sat blinded and perfectly still 

In the sweet thrall of that passionate thrill ; 



MEG I A PASTORAL. 39 

While Meg, all trembling, yet smiling and bright, 
Kissed father and mother a hurried good-night. 



THE DEPARTURE. 

The winter was gone, and the worst had come : 
The flag had been outraged, and every son 
Of the lion North burned to see vengeance done. 
With opening buds came the roll of the drum, 
And John Brown's soul was surely marching on. 
One night, as the lamps were lighted within, 
The door was pushed open, and John came in. 
Past Meg and the mother to Farmer Brown 
He strode ; and he said, " I'm just back from town. 
I've enlisted : my company goes to-night." 
Then the farmer rose, and stretched out his hand : 
" Ah, John! I knew it would come, and thou'rt 
right." 



40 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

But John drew back as the farmer drew near : 
a Of death for myself I have not one fear: 
But I will not kill! so you understand.'' 
Then the farmer laughed, and laid hold of John : 
"When you're in the thick, that fancy will go 
As thistle-down when the fresh winds blow. 
Ay, lad, I know thee : if my own son 
Had lived, he had not been more to my mind. 
Thy softness vexed me; but I'm not blind. — 
Come, little mother, and thou little maid, 
And touch the stuff of which heroes are made : 
Thy woman's words will put cheer in his heart. — 
Ay, John, I'm right glad, and yet loath to part ! " 

As he ceased, and turned to the chimney-place, 
A great wave of color rushed over John's face. 
He swayed for an instant, and then stood calm 
And statelily firm as the shaft of a palm. 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 4 1 

He put out his arms, and they saw and heard 
His heart break out in one look and word, — 
"Meg!" and he waited with laboring breath. 
She looked on him, startled, grew pale as death, 
And spoke not, but drew her father's rough coat, 
And covered her face and her swelling throat. 
A silence fell ; then quick steps crossed the floor 
To her side ; a hand just touched her fair head, 
As if in the stillness a prayer was said ; 
Then receding steps, and a closing door. 

TIDINGS. 

The sky was soft with the glory of June : 

Once more the hedge-rows were white and red 

With hawthorn bloom, and the lilting tune 
Of robin and oriole overhead 

Poured sweetness into the yellow noon. 



42 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

At the triple note of the dinner-horn, 

Home came the farmer from hoeing corn. 

" Why, where ! " he cried, and stood fumbling 

about, 
Turning pocket by pocket inside out. 
" I've got a letter from John/' he said : 
"I put it somewher's." — "I guess I know," 
Laughed Meg, and gave him a loving pat 
With the little hand, that, lifting his hat, 
Showed -the letter safe on top of his head ! 
He took it down quickly, looked hard, muttered 

"Sho!" 
Then, without more ado, he opened and read 
How John had been in the terrible fight, 
And lost his heart and his conscience quite. 

"Alas! it's just as you said," wrote he: 

" My heart was lying like lead in my breast ; 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 43 

But when the word came, and the rebel gray 

Bristled hardly a bayonet's length away, 

A red-hot devil leaped into me, 

And I fought and raged like a brute with the 

rest. 
Oh ! I feel as two men embodied in one, — 
A brute in the battle, a saint when it's done ! 
I never imagined what awful power 
Could press a man's soul in the battle-hour, — 
The dreadful groans, and the bright blood stream- 
ing, 
The smoke and the shock, the horses screaming, 
The curses that thicken the panting breath, 
Hot life leaping over collapse of death. 



" One poor fellow — they have brought him in 
here — 



44 MEG • A PASTORAL. 

Keeps saying, ' Poor Mary ! Good-by, Mary 

dear!' 
The surgeon has told me 'twill soon be past : 
His side is crushed in, and he cannot last. 

"He's gone. We took from the wound in his 

breast 
A bit of paper : the shell took the rest. 
Ah, poor blood-stained words ! * Your Mary ' 

it's signed. 
So thou hast left a true sweetheart behind ! 
With smooth white forehead and clustering curl, 
Thou look'st as thou wert a sleeping girl. 

" But he fought like a tiger ; and, when he fell, 
He laughed in the face of that horrible shell. 
Poor fellow ! there's one'll grieve sore over thee. 
Thank God she is spared this distracting sight ! 



MEG I A PASTORAL. 45 

Could I heal thy wound, and give thee my 

breath, 
And take thy place in that stillness of death, 
'Twere well for thy ' Mary/ and well for me ; 
And, it seems to me, 'twere more just and 

right. 

"I must get an hour's rest for to-morrow's 
fight. 

God bless thee ! old cottage and friends, good- 
night ! 

Or perhaps — God knoweth — 'twill be good-by ! 

Well, the easiest thing in life is to die." 

And that morrow came, and with shot and shell 
Turned blossoming fields into wastes of hell. 
Close under the mid-air level of smoke 
The long writhing columns gathered and broke : 



46 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

When the red earth steamed in the noonday 

sun, 
The gray were flying, the blue had won. 

As the glow of the setting sun is spread 
Over ghastly heaps of the dying and dead, 
John creeps with sore heart and averted head ; 
And his eyes are dim with a bitter mist 
As he gropes at the pulseless breast and 

wrist. 
Death's awful level is wrought that day : 
Whether friend or foe, or in blue or gray, 
John's heart-sick pity no difference feels. 
One faintly wails " Water !" John, yearning, 

kneels, 
Starts back, and gasps forth, with a spurning 

shove, — 
" Traitor to country, as faithless in love ! " 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 47 

The thick bright hair and the sensuous mouth, 
All the dark ripe grace of the fervid South, — 
Though dust-smirched and death-pale, John 

knows them well, 
And the heaven of pity grows hate of hell. 
Meg's kiss on his hand, and that wave of light 
From her beaming eyes on that winter's night, 
How happy they made him ! and now he knew 
They were not for him, but this traitor Hugh. 
" It is not my doing if he dies there." 
John's lips are set, and his glance is a glare. 

And the face strong pity had made so sweet 
Bends, cruel as death, o'er that face at his feet. 
And there is no pleading: a shuddering sigh 
Was all that followed that piteous cry. 
No pleading ! dark clots of blood at the breast, 
And eyes staring blank in the rosy west. 



48 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

John's heart is torn in the fiery strife 
Betwixt the strong angels of Death and Life ; 
Nor heedeth he, as the moment passes, 
The evening-hymn of the wind-blown grasses. 

Far North, the same sunset's wide-flowing light, 
Pouring through parting of curtains white, 
Falls rosily over the table, spread 
With its simple blessing of daily bread, 
And golden butter, and bowls of new milk. 
Meg, threading one hand in the rippled silk 
Of her beautiful hair, in the gateway stands, 
In the midst of her father's well-tilled lands. 
With a stately swell to the North they rise, 
With the laughter of hills, and whisper of vales, 
Under motion and music of bloom-sweetened 

gales, 
On every side circling to meeting skies. 



meg: a pastoral. 49 

But stream and meadow, and woodland maze, 
Mapped in the glow of those setting rays, 
Unheeded, are glassed in her wistful gaze. 
Southward she looks, and silently prays ; 
For the faith of women and children is hers, — 
That rock-like faith which no doubting stirs. 
So her heart is eased, and the quiet charm 
Of the evening felt, as she swings the gate, 
And runs to her father, and takes his arm, 
And asks, " What news, that you come so 
late?" 

The farmer unwrinkled his brow, and smiled ; 
For his heart was quick to his graceful child. 
But the frown came back as he sternly said, — 
" There's a bloody work since this day began: 
No certain news ; but there's dying and dead ; 
Rife rumors to make the stoutest heart sick; 



50 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

And John — his company went in the thick ; 
And they say it is butchered, to a man ! " 

" Let us wait till we know. Father, don't fear: 

All is well with John ; for I feel it here." 

At that he turned quickly, and spake more cold: — 

" O child ! such hoping comes easy to thee, 
Who could not love him, who loved thee so 
dear. 

But he had become as a son to me, 
And I bear it ill : I am growing old. 
But I should not blame thee : love bides no 

will." 
Meg sighed ; yet a warm, ineffable thrill 
Stirred sweetly her heart as she crossed the sill. 

And far to the South, in that death-strewn 
place, 



MEG I A PASTORAL. 5 I 

In the self-same moment John lifts his face : 
All its stern hard lines into beauty break. 
" I had forgotten ! She loves him still ; 
And he shall not perish, for her dear sake." 
And swift the pale temples and poor parched 

lips 
He touches with cool dripping finger-tips : 
Then, bending, he lifts him tenderly ; 
Crouching, he bears him on hand and knee ; 
For the rebel pickets still mark the spot ; 
And there's danger, too, from a random shot. 

And ever he creeps with more painful care, 
With whitening lips and sweat-streaming hair. 
His burden is heavy ; his strength ebbs fast. 
A shock, and the sky and the earth reel past, 
Then back to their places. He feels no pain, 
But will never lift his right arm again. 



52 meg: a pastoral. 

As a sleeping babe his pale burden lies, 
But living. John feels the heart faintly beat ; 
Sweeps the darkening field with his bloodshot eyes ; 
Perceives betwixt him and the fading skies 
One moving, and toward him with all his 

strength 
Drags his moaning burden a body's length ; 
Cries " Help ! " with last might of his loving 

will ; 
Then the pale lips pressed to the earth are still. 

THE RETURN. 

With long tender twilight and golden morn, 
And glory of noon, the bright days sped on. 
Through yellowing fields the tall tasselled corn 
Shook silken green plumes in the August sun, 
And berries turned black where the slopes were 
shorn. 



meg: a pastoral. 53 

Under far-floating veil of purpled haze, 

September went musing by hillside ways. 

So autumn came, and no tidings from John ; 

Till one night, after supping, as Farmer Brown, 

With his head on his breast, rode into town, 

He saw at the tavern a dust arise, 

And heard a loud mingling of cheers and cries; 

In a daze sat listening and looking on, 

Till an old villager up to him ran, 

And plucked at his sleeve, " Eh ! look alive, 

man ! 
It's Jem, from the war, — the old widow's son: 
He'll know, I'll be bound, all about thy John." 

The farmer leaped down, and he did not speak ; 

But the muscles twitched in his swarthy cheek. 

He pressed through the crowd at the porch ; 
and there 



54 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

Lay Jem's crutches across the landlord's chair, 
And Jem in a heap on the old settee, 
With his right leg gone from above the knee. 
Now they who were listening, close gathered 

about, 
When the farmer strode in, went softly out. 

" I know not for sure if John lives or dies," 
Said Jem, looking kindly from hollow eyes. 
"I'll -tell thee at once as much as I know." 
"Ay, do, tell me all," the farmer said, 
And drew him a chair, — for he ill could stand, — 
And sat holding fast by either hand. 
" When I saw him last, six long weeks ago, 
Our surgeon had given him over for dead : 
He was wasted to nought with the fever glow, 
The loss of his arm, and the craze of his 
head. 



meg: a pastoral. 55 

" He fought like a hero ! Came sound from the 

fight; 
For I was with him. But then he must go, 
Not waiting for rest or cover of night, — 
For though day was spent, and the sun below 
The brim of the earth, the west was as bright 
As a torch, and the field aflood with light, — 
Fagged, famished, and not yet breathed from 

the strife, 
But watchful for motion, or moan of pain, 
Poor John must go creeping among the slain, 
In his hunger o' mercy for saving life. 

"After that I went in, and ate and slept. 
When I rose and came out the night had crept 
Closer ; but millions of stars in the sky 
Made a soft light. As I stood, a red gleam 
Flashed out from the farther side of the stream; 



$6 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

And the flash was followed by such a cry ! 
We followed the sound to the edge of the camp; 
And there lay thy John, and that faithless 

scamp, — 
That fellow — curse him! — that came here last 

year, 
And wooed and jilted our girls far and near. 

"We brought them in, and we did what we could. 
Nought ailed him, the traitor, but loss of blood. 
But John's arm had to go: the cruel knife, 
And the strain of that day, they sapped his life. 
Then the fever set in, and day by day 
Burned his little short wick of life away. 
And then " (Jem laid his thin hand on his knee), 
"In the next battle, this happened to me. 
After that, when I grew better, and tried 
To look up poor John, they said he had died." 



meg: a pastoral. 57 

It flashed through the farmer's crushed thought 

to say 
There were other things he would like to hear 
Concerning the Union good men held dear, 
And to offer to Jem his homeward ride : 
There were seat and blanket to spare at his side. 
But he rose in silence, and strode away : 
Beneath the old elms and out of the town, 
With his head on his breast, rode Farmer 

Brown. 

The warm, gentle breeze that began to blow 
Waved the shadowy grasses to and fro ; 
The little brook running beside the road 
Cheerily sparkled and sang as it flowed. 
But he hasted home, and he took no heed, 
And heard not the hoofs that followed with 
speed. 



58 meg: a pastoral. 

He crossed his threshold, and told in a breath, 
As it had been told unto him, John's death ; 
The patience, the valor, the generous deed, 
And for whom he had yielded up his life; 
Adding no word of his own to the tale; 
But wearily turning from child and wife, 
Who hearkened unto him speechless and pale, 
He crossed the wide hearth, and sank in his 

chair. 
That instant a tumult grew in the air, 
Of wheels, voices, steps, and a happy shout 
That swelled and pressed close to the door 

without. 

Then the door burst open ; and in the space 
Of the star-lighted dusk they saw a face, 
Meagre and pallid and hollow-eyed, 
And bright, fresh faces that gathered beside. 



MEG : A PASTORAL. 59 

As they crowded forward, the foremost said, 
With a bashful pluck at his hatless head, — 
" Old neighbor, thou left us broken and sad ; 
And we followed after to make thee glad, 
And tried to come up with thee, — all in vain; 
For thou'dst given thy spanking mare the rein. 
Thou hadst not ridden a mile, ere the train, 
That came whistling in with the latest post, 
Steamed off, after leaving wi' us — John's ghost !" 

The farmer passed one hand over his brow, 
And, rising, caught hold of the chimney-shelf, 
And his wife's shoulder, to steady himself ; 
And, "John!" said he huskily, — "John, is it 

thou ? " 
A smile flickered over John's meagre face 
As he staggered up in the chimney-place ; 
But he would not sit in the chair the, drew, 



60 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

Nor speak, nor touch any hand, till he knew 
If the farmer's daughter welcomed him too. 

With marble-pale features and quivering chin 
Meg looked as a lily when John came in ; 
Now softly came forward a little ways, 
And flushed as a rose to his yearning gaze; 
Nearer with dark drooping lashes she came : 
O'er brow, face, and throat the heart -color 

flew, 
Till the lily was rose, and the rose a flame, 
And the flame half quenched in the sudden dew 
Of the swift - lifted eyes, that pierced him 

through 
With the sweet, strong lustre of happy love. 

The empty sleeve she lifted, and pressed 
To her lips, and laid it over her breast : 



meg: a pastoral. 6\ 

Then clasped she her hands, and raised them 
above 

His bending head, and, passing them over, 

Drew them close round the neck of her lover. 

He looked on her trembling, but could not 
speak 

For the great hot tears that wetted his cheek. 

A little she turned her beautiful face 

To the others grouped in the chimney-place ; 

And she thanked and blessed them with gen- 
tlest grace, 

And was proud that every one there should see, 

Who had only one arm, he now had three ! 

And but for her arms he had sunk at her feet 

For joy so sudden, and wonder so sweet. 

Then forth went neighbors and father and 
mother, 

Leaving those two alone with each other. 



62 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

HOME. 

September went by, and October came, 
And ripened the nuts under leaves aflame. 
Languidly throned on the upland swells, 
The Indian summer, as in a swoon, 
Through the palpitation of white-hot noon, 
Slept to the music of wedding-bells ! 

For the beautiful daughter of Farmer Brown 
Was wedded that morning in yonder town. 
Together they knelt at the altar-rail : 
Like a rose the bride bloomed under her veil ; 
But the joy of the bridegroom made him pale. 
As they rose, and turned to the gathered throng, 
The choir broke forth into wedding-song ; 
And many a blessing of glance and smile 
Met them, and followed them down the aisle. 



meg: a pastoral. 63 

A moment they paused on the threshold-stone ; 
Then hand-clasped, and silent went forth alone : 
Across the fields, through the golden weather, 
This bride and bridegroom went on together. 

But, when they had come to the meadow-stile, 

She, suddenly lifting her graceful head, 

Put back her veil ; with a glorious smile 

Looked full in her husband's face, and said, — 

" We have taken together the marriage-vow : 

Let us keep it forever, beginning now. 

If you love me, trust me with all, not part, 

Of the life that beats in my husband's heart. 

From the very day you came back again 

Has a little shadow between us lain : 

My effort to banish it all in vain. 

So I waited, and thought, ' When I am his wife, 

I will put that shadow out of his life/ 



64 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

John, let us begin in our strength and our 

youth 
To live love's life in the uttermost truth." 

Then he answered her straight, " I had one 

fear, 
But was ever ashamed to tell it thee, = — 
Thou art so beautiful, love, and so dear, 
And I so common ! I thought, were he here, 
Oh ! couldst thou and wouldst thou have chosen 

me ? 
And this is the cloud that between us came, — 
This doubt" — and he colored in noble shame — 
"Of thy love and trust, so shining and clear." 

She stood in silence a little while, 
With a shy, strange sweetness in look and 
smile ; 



meg: a pastoral. 65 

Then drew his hand gently under her cheek, — 
A way she had when in earnest to speak, — 
"This is all? Thank God! for then all is well. 
Love, I have a little story to tell 
Of something that chanced at this very stile. 
One night, just seven before you came home, 
When these fields in the twilight were all 

afoam 
With wind-waved daisies, and swallows flew, 
And dipped their quick wings in the daisies' 

dew, 
And the fair young moon in the tranquil west 
Leaned her golden bow on the mountain's crest, 
A maiden sat down on this stile to rest; 
And scarce was she seated ere some one came 
Out of the shadow and uttered her name, 
And startled the calm sweet thoughts in her 

breast 



66 meg: a pastoral. 

As a ghost at the side of a wedding-guest ; 
And she stood before him, in silence opprest. 
He had youth and beauty, and every grace 
Sad memory gives to a once loved face. 

"And simply he spoke: 'He loved her at last 
Truly, and craved her full grace for the past, 
And that when the war was done she would come 
And be his queen-wife in his Southern home. 
To say this thing he had stolen away, 
And travelled footsore 'twixt night and day.' 

"And she, listening, wept with the tender pain 
Of a true heart's pity for true love slain 
Past the power or desire of quickening again. 
And thus she made answer in simple phrase: — 
' I do forgive thee with all my heart ; 
But thy life in mine hath no more a part. 



MEG *. A PASTORAL. 6j 

I loved thee once, and for many days 

And nights I sorrowed in secret for thee ; 

But the anguish passed, and there came to me, 

As in a vision, so sudden and sweet, 

The precious boon of a love complete, 

That lay at my heart as the flower at my feet. 

Through winter and summer, through cloud and 

shine, 
Had this service of perfect love been mine. 
But in that strange moment when first I saw 
This love of loves, and knew it was mine, 
I felt unworthy, and stricken with awe ; 
And he went from me, and he had no sign. 
But I love him with the one love of my life, 
And will be unwed, or that good man's wife.' " 

Just over their heads in the happy skies, 
As she ceased, there came a twitter of birds. 



68 MEG : A PASTORAL. 

She smiled, looking up : but with glistening 

eyes 
He drew her close ; there were no more words. 

So they went home. When the night came 

down, 
Silent and dark was the church in the town, — 
Empty of all the gay wedding-throng, 
Empty of echoes of wedding-song. 
And the little house that sits on the hill, 
Under cluster of vines, was dark and still ; 
Yet there was begun the immortal song, 
Where love's white thoughts were the wedding- 
throng, 
And there was lighted the mystic light 
That fadeth not out by day or night. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



1 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 

Thanatopsis. 

Amantem sui Natiira Salutat. 



Thus sang a glorious voice, that, full and free, 
Filled all the atmosphere from star to sea : — 

" Speed hither, winds, and blend in noble mirth 

The many-chorded harmonies of earth ; 

Bend, cloudless heavens, thy quickening golden 

eye 

Beyond the mountain snows that crest on high 

To the deep centres where my germ-worlds lie, 

Till all my rolling garden bourgeons fair, 

6 9 



JO WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

As down the eternal pathway of the sky 
I cleave the blue illimitable air." 

Lightly as airs that follow summer rain, 
The glorious voice sank to a softer strain : — 

" Glide, joyous brooks, with silvery lullings where 
Tall reeds and glistening grasses interlace 

With willow, drooping like a mermaid's hair, 
To screen the ' waterfowl's ' green hiding- 
place. 

"Or cast up sparkling, on secluded shore, 
Fair Sella* s slippers, white and i spangled o'er,' 
So little maidens couched in mossy nook, 
In the deep wonder of some fairy book, 
Up-glancing, shall behold in still delight 
The crystal gleaming of those sandals bright, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Jl 

And dream they dance with gentle sea-nymphs 
where 

Through pale-green brine descends the ocean- 
stair. 

"And thou, his 'childhood's favorite/ 'Rivulet,' 
See that thou dost not in thy sports forget 
To kiss with lightsome lip, all soft and wet, 
In springs to come, the earliest violet 
That opes its modest beauty on thy brim ; 
In tender covenant, 'sweet rill/ with him 
Whose 'little feet/ in springs that come no 

more, 
Used oft to press the greenness of thy shore, 
And in whose song men hear, as in a dream, 
The gladsome murmur of thy winding stream ; 
For he hath had his hope, and written high 
The name he dreamed in youth 'should never die/ 



J2 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

" Come, gentle ' west wind/ that in fragrant 

vale 
Lists to the 'jug-jug' of the nightingale, 
Or hears among the pines that dusk the hill 
The wooing ' ring-dove' and the whippoorwil], — 
Come, breathe thy hymn in leaves that bend 

above 
Him who hath named thee ' wind of youth and 

love/ 

" And ye, glad choir of the young summer days, 
Your myriad melodious bills unclose 
To welcome him, who, ' ripe in wisdom, lays 
His silver temples in their last repose' 
Upon the blossom-broidered breast of June : 
So in prophetic wistful song he prayed — 
Ere life's auroral morn had burned to noon — 
That in the joy of June his grave be made. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 73 

He sang thy praise, O 'June'! and well mayst 

thou 
Bring all thy beauty to his coming now : 
Let thy soft breathings, blending odors rare, 
Tune the green reed-harps where his slumbers 

are ! 
Call thy bright butterflies — in half-embrace 
Of shining wings — to veil the sacred place; 
Ask of thy lilies, scarlet, purple, white, 
Their fairest petals for a drapery bright 
Which the deft humming-bird and housewife- 
bee 
Shall weave with skeins of cobweb skilfully ; 
Sprinkle with incense thy most fragrant leaves 
Distil in dewy morns and drowsy eves. 

"Well mayst thou give the welcome of a queen 
To this calm guest, who, silent and serene, 



74 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Comes in ' unfaltering trust ' sustained, content 
To make my couch yet more magnificent." 



Pacing the invoking earth with throbbing feet, 
As sank its glorious voice in cadence sweet, 
June plucked the budding roses from her breast, 
And cast them from warm palms to east and west, 
And, smiling, blew from open dewy mouth 
White lilies north, and scarlet lilies south ; 
For, anywhere that rose or liiy fell, 
Bird, bee, and butterfly would know full well 
That they were summoned from the flower and 

nest 
To do him honor who had loved them best. 

Lightly from mossy cleft and balmy glade 
Flitted those tiny shining creatures made 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 75 

To pass their brief bright being of an hour 
In fanning fragile wings o'er wave and flower. 
Up flew the wren and the sweet-throated thrush, 
The ground-bird rose from grasses growing lush, 
The oriole lifted plume from sides aflame, 
The bluebird from the bending hawthorn came, 
Red-vested robin waved his surtout brown, 
The lark from dazzling eyry fluttered down, 
Till they were as a cloud in the white tide. 
Fast, fast their whirring numbers multiplied : 
Ten thousand flutes and bugles blown in glee 
Could ne'er have wakened such a jubilee 
As on they sang, each in its own blithe way, 
" Our friend, our gentle friend, has come to 
stay ! " 

But when within the golden, glimmering shade, 
Beside the narrow bed so richly made, 



y6 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

They saw the " spotted fawn " leap unafraid, 
And slowly from the deeper grove appear, 
Listening, the luminous - eyed " white -footed 

deer," 
With softer twitterings they hovered near, 
Their dark eyes brighter for the brilliant notes 
Swelling unwarbled in their glossy throats. 
Some thronged on slender branches, blossom- 

drest, 
That linked their flickering shadows o'er his 

breast, 
And some on bough and stem and flowering spray, 
While " Robert o' Lincoln" led the loving lay. 

His gallant crest and shoulders were as white, 
His coat as black, as on his wedding-night, 
As merrily he swung, and told his name ; 
While with her timid chirp his pretty dame 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 7/ 

Through the tall grass — remembering whose 

praise 
Made such a merit of her wifely ways, 
And seeing how his blessed couch was decked — 
Brought shyly her " white eggs" with " purple 

flecked." 
Softly at first, then clearer swelled and higher, 
The grateful chorus of that countless choir. 

As, closer circling to his place of rest, 
Each sang the little song that pleased him best, 
Bearing a " snow-white flower," a little child 
Drew near, with artless gaze and motion mild : 
'"Stainless,' he said, 'with stainless, sweet with 

sweet ; ' 
And he will like to have it at his feet 
Who loved so much to walk among the flowers, 
And talk with little children hours and hours. 



78 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

And don't you think 'twill please him, pretty 

birds, 
That I remembered just his very words, — 
Because I love him so, — and ran to bring 
My ' snow-white flower ' when I heard you 

sing ? " 

"We love him too," so all the birds replied, 
And looked at her with little heads aside ; 
" For he loved us, and we were ne'er afraid 
To show him where our pretty eggs were laid, 
Or sit on the low branches where he stood 
With brow uncovered in the bloomy wood. 
And we shall come with summer every year, 
And sing to the dear friend who slumbers here. 
But when" (they sang more low) "the golden-rod, 
And fair ' fringed gentian ' that looks up to 
God, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 79 

Begin to droop and wither, and the sky- 
To chill and darken, then the birds must fly : 
When trees are naked, and the tempests keep 
Wild revels with them, who will guard his 
sleep?" 

Then from the mists of mountains far and high 
Slid down faint voices in a slender cry: — 
"Fear not, ye little birds; for when ye go, 
And when the bitter winds begin to blow, 
With airy footsteps, and with robes that flow, 
We will come down your vacant place to fill, 
And with the touch of fingers light and chill 
Weave him a lustrous raiment, lovelier far 
Than all the burning blooms of summer are ; 
Rear him who loved all things that God hath 

made 
A temple exquisite, with colonnade 



80 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Of fluted pillars, azured and embossed 

With ' tufts of silvery rime/ and ' wreaths of 

frost ; ' 
And he who rests beneath it — he will know 
We are his 'Little People of the Snow/" 



"Old sorrows are forgotten now. 

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 

That overpays them." 

Flood of Years. 

In the cold spray of the oncoming "flood " 
Already veiled in evenings mist he stood, 
Yet turned, and told the vision he beheld — 
As the exhaustless current nearer swelled — 
To them who waited, yearning for each word ; 
And when he could not for the roar be 
heard, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 8 1 

Still they could see him for a little while 
Look toward them from the thickening mist, 

and smile 
As he would comfort them ; then on the shore 
Broke the dark wave, and he was seen no more. 

But not as one in grief, or chill of fear, 
He saw the billow's breaking edge draw near, 
And knew the roaring on the abysmal brim 
Beneath the "belt of darkness " summoned him. 
Serene his eye, as calmly looking back 
He saw on the broad torrent's desert track 
His gallant ship that long ago set sail, — 
Hope at the helm, and promise in the gale, — 
With the vast fleet of unreturning hopes 
Lie bleaching on the wave-uncovered slopes, 
And thought, "The hope it did not bring it 
bore ; 



82 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Life was the richer on some other shore : 

For the Great Purpose, Love, is never crossed : 

No pain is useless, and no joy is lost." 

His ear was filled, his great heart satisfied, 
With the sweet greetings that came down the 

tide 
To bless and bid him God speed who had cared, 
With deep unselfish love, how nations fared. 

Like breezes blown from fair, far isles of peace, 
Rang the glad paean from the hills of Greece : — 
" From Scio's vale, where ' Turkish falchions 

shed' 
Her people's blood till every wave ran red, 
Clear shall her waters flow into the sea ; 
' For God and her good sword ' shall set 

Greece free : 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 83 

Yet ' terrible ' shall her i deliverance be : ' 
So ran, great soul, thy solemn prophecy." 

Where the wild Sierra slopes to spicy plain, 
From her weary bondage rose the voice of 

Spain : — 
" Blessed be the eyes that beheld the day 
When my sons should lift my galling yoke 

away, 
And once more my vineyards to the blue sea 
Be sweet with the thanksgiving of the free ! " 

From the white Alps and purple Apennines, 
And rivers sweeping under fruited vines, 
Down scarred Vesuvius to the leaping sea, 
Swelled the glad cry, " ' Italy is free ! ' 
As ye foretold, the good God, he hath willed : 
Behold, great seer, thy prophecy fulfilled ! " 



84 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

And Europe from her darkening conflict 

cried, 
"Thy word to me — it shall be glorified! 
My 'struggling multitude of states' must be 
Deluged in blood ; but blood shall make them free. 
The ' moment set/ as shown thee in the past, 
To 'rescue and raise up/ is come at last ! " 

Then in his own dear land, where his brave 

m strain 
In strong vibrations shattered Slavery's chain, 
Pierced Error till he writhed in mortal pain, 
And lifted bruised Truth to heaven again, 
Rose the half-smothered wail of those who stood 
Behind him when he met the mighty flood ; 
Saw him caught up, smiling, swept from view, — 
If what the "good and wise have said" be 
true, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 85 

Only to pass where wisdom is revealed, 
Sorrows forgot, and wounds forever healed ; 
Where all who love and suffer here again 
Renew the blessed vow, without the pain ; 
And where is endless peace in place of strife, 
And Love hath wedded Everlasting Life ! 



"NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 

A FANTASY. 

f 

I fell asleep, and dreams revealed to me 
The vision of a city great and free, 
Twice-girdled by a zone of sunlit sea, 
And by a wall of flawless masonry. 
Without the gates a peerless woman sat 
In flowing robes the light waves murmured at, — 
In flowing robes whose full and classic fold 
Fell like repose o'er limbs of perfect mould : 
A dove on her fair forehead lightly sitting 
Seemed poising midway between rest and flit- 
ting. 

86 



" NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 8 1 / 

" My name is Peace," she said : " my work is 
yon," — 
Her strong arm lifting from her swelling breast, 
And circling royally from west to west ; 

" Mine is this rock-zoned city, by the sun 
And fragrant wind and freighted wave ca- 
ressed. 

"A thousand streams from hill-born fountains 

flowing, 
In many a frolic swirl of ripple, plash, and purl, 
Run laughing on to turn the busy wheels 
That set my rich designs to countless reels. 
A thousand gales from distant cloudland blowing, 
The nearer air with fertile magic sowing, 
In soft pulsations as of unseen plumes, 
Beat the sweet incense from earth's varied 

blooms, 



88 "NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 

And, o'er the vernal velvet of her vales, 
Flit seaward to coquet with waiting sails. 

"My high-born maiden in embroidered train 

Glides down the shining, wide, and winding 
stair, 
To music's faintly palpitating strain, — 

Her graceful step its best translation there, — 
Through halls that give her beauty back again, 

From mirrors polished into crystal air, 
That seem in endless vistas to retain 

The beauties each repeating makes more fair. 

" My cottage-maiden lists to love at eve, 

Her glossy head upon her peasant's shoulder, 

Her silken favor floating from his sleeve, 

His lips to hers when dusk hath made love 
bolder ; 



"not peace, but a sword." 89 

For changeful love is only all it seems, 
When Peace hath bidden it gild a maiden's 
dreams. 

"The ripe perfection of my pride and power 
Lies in that subtlest art that curbs and reins, 
As a trained steed, the throb in human veins, — 
The art that ever is, yet seemeth not to be ; 
That on the hut of serf uprears the feudal 

tower, 
And locks the lips of nobles with a golden key, 
Holding him closest slave who deems himself 

most free, 
Beguiling vassalage with dreams of liberty. ,, 

While yet she spoke, the sun was whelmed 

away 
As by the shadows of the close of day, 



90 "NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 

And all the sky besprent with sudden stars, 
Each flashing with the baleful glow of Mars ; 
While from afar, all darkly settling down, 
Colossal, black, and foul as charnel-pit, 
With errant lightnings redly seamed and lit, 
A mighty cloud rolled o'er the fated town. 

Then she, the peerless woman, rose and wailed: 
Through all her lovely limbs her spirit quailed ; 
The dove upon her forehead spread its plume, 
And cleft with flagging wing the gathering 

gloom. 
Brief space she gazed, then bowed her royal 

head 
Upon her struggling breast, and, groping, fled. 

Then I beheld the fearful cloud take shape 
Like to no form of mortal mould or ken, 



"not peace, but a sword." gi 

And it seemed clothed upon with armed men. 
" My name is War ! " it cried. " I glut with 

rape 
Of hope and home and hearth my greedy heart : 
My car of triumph is the reeking cart, 
That bears, 'mid furrows of relinquished shields, 
The quivering hecatombs of battle-fields. 

" I love to cleave the brow of Art, and maim 
Her laurel-wreathed limbs beyond reclaim ; 
To hurl proud Science from her ancient seat, 
And cast her fane in ruins at her feet ; 
To paint in blood the sky upon your waves ; 
To undulate your happy land with graves. 

" Earth has one only music, to mine ears 
More sweet than to the bride her wedding- 
bells : 



92 "NOT peace, but a sword. 

Tis the sharp chorus of the crashing shells, 
The groans that gurgle up through blood and 
tears. " 

The dreadful cloud passed on : the light of day, 
Slow-raying from the forehead of the East, 
Touched a gaunt figure, travel-worn and lorn, 
That, passing as the golden light increased, 
Held fast in quivering hands a tyrant's crown ; 
Paused at the city gates, and dashed it down ; 
Then raised a face of queenly loveliness — 
Though wan and haggard in its strong distress — 
Above the tatters of a beggar's dress, 
That, covering her in its unseemly fold, 
Still left not all her trembling grace untold. 

"Hear me, O city of my love!" she cried. 
" I come to thee, not in mine olden pride 



" NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 93 

Of sceptre, crown, and gilded galling chain : 
I have put all these costly things aside, — 
Too costly ! paid in coin of heart and brain ! 
Basely I did betray : I will atone, 
Counting all thine, not feeling aught my own, 
Or only mine that it may yield through me 
Tenfold the good I once required of thee. 
I drained thy heart for rubies in my crown : 
My tears have made them diamonds : I lay down 
The burning treasure — it is strangely meet — 
As bridge and beacon for. thy bruised feet 
From bitter slaveries to Freedom's sweet. 

" Trust me, my people : I have sinned ; but yet 
I have repented, and have paid the price. 

My tears so flowed, the gates of heaven are 
wet!" 
Then fell a tender voice from Paradise, 



94 "NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 

That spoke to her in such mysterious word, 
I can but tell the meaning that I heard : — 

" Beware the refluence of currents trained 

To stifle Nature's sweetness at the source : 

In trodden hearts they gain an earthquake's 

force, 
And wreak centrifugal revenge at last. 
Divine Humanity, — too surely drained 
From the galled bosoms of a people chained 
To serve no simple inspiration of their own, 
But stand on their own hearts to lift a throne, — 
Wrought ye the ghastly lesson of the past. 
Thou wert the false peace sunk in selfish power: 
Thou art new born of Sorrow! Meet thine 

hour ! 
And of the cosmic drama learn thy part, — 
The priceless value of one human heart." 



"NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 95 

The tender voice, receding, seemed to rise, 
And pass to silence up the distant skies. 
Hope lit the listening woman's lustrous eyes : 
The very movement of her buoyant feet 
Seemed set to the beatitude of love, 
In which her wasted face grew grand and sweet. 
Like a white fragment of the glow above, 
Down glistening through the ether came her 

dove, 
Just touched the lips its golden bill caressed, 
And sunk in fluttering rapture on her breast, 
As toward that ransomed city by the sea, 
She, yearning, turned in love's great majesty. 

I followed her, — for sleep has no control 
Over the silent pilgrim in the soul, — 
And I desired with all my soul to seize 
The utmost meaning of these mysteries ; 



g6 "NOT PEACE, BUT A SWORD." 

To knit them with my thought, that I might 

make 
Their perfect revelation when awake. 
And when I felt the spell of sleep unbind, 
And the unfinished dream elude my mind, 
I dipped me in the conscious thrall so deep, 
It could not slip the outer fold of sleep. 
f 

At length I leaped awake, with eager heart 

The finished marvel burning to impart. 

Instant the Future set on my thrilled lip her 

seal : 
"The past is mine," she said: "I will reveal!" 



LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 1 

One reads to me Macaulay's "Lays" 
With fervid voice, intoning well : 

The poet's fire, the vocal grace, — 
They hold me like a spell. 

1 The brave boy, only ten years old, whose fate is the subject of the 
following verses, was mzirdered by the mining system. He was employed 
in one of the Pittston mines. When the shaft caught fire, he with a com- 
rade sought to escape. Suddenly he remembered that some men who were 
busy in a farther chamber of the mine must be unaware of their danger. 
There was but one outlet, but one chance. He left both to his little mate, 
and darted back into the mine. He hoped for time to warn the men, and 
yet make good his own escape ; but he knew well the frightful risk, and 
accepted it. He reached the men, warned them, and fled back to the 
shaft, to find that hope, only too slender before, was now absolutely gone. 
He turned, and hurried through the galleries once more, that he might die 
with them for whom he gave his life. They had builded with desperate 
haste a wall between them and the deadly gases and vapors which rolled 
thickening toward them. Even then their chance of surviving was a slim 
one. To let him in was to admit certain death : so they refused his 
prayer. They heard him sob, and walk falteringly away. He was after- 
ward found quite dead, a little board beside him, on which, with a piece of 
chalk, he had, in dying, feebly written the names of loved ones. 

97 



98 LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 

'Twere marvel if in human veins 

Could beat a pulse so cold 
It would not quicken to the strains, 
The flying, fiery strains, that tell 
How Romans "kept the bridge so well 

In the brave days of old." 
The while I listened, till my blood, 
Plunged in the poet's martial mood, 

Rushed in my veins like wine, 
I prayed, — to One who hears, I wis, — 
" Give me one breath of power like this 

To sing of Pittston mine ! " 



A child looks up the ragged shaft, — 

A boy whose meagre frame 
Shrinks as he hears the roaring draught 

That feeds the eager flame. 



LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 99 

He has a single chance : the stakes 

Of life show death at bay 
One moment ; then his comrade takes 

The hope he casts away. 

For while his trembling hand is raised, 
And while his sweet eyes shine, 

There swells above the love of life 
The rush cf love divine, — 

The thought of those unwarned, to whom 
Death steals along the mine. 

O little Martin Craghan ! 

I reck not if you swore, 
Like Porsena of Clusium, 

By gods of mythic lore ; 
But well I ween as great a heart 

Beat your small bosom sore, 



IOO LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 

And that your bare brown feet scarce felt 

The way they bounded o'er. 
I know you were a hero then, 

Whate'er you were before; 
And in God's sight your flying feet 

Made white the cavern floor. 

The while he speeds that darksome way, 

Hope paints upon his fears 
Soft visions of the light of day ; 

Faint songs of birds he hears ; 
In summer breeze his tangled curls 

Are blown about his ears. 

He sees the men ; he warns • and now, 

His duty bravely done, 
Sweet hope may paint the fairest scene 

That spreads beneath the sun. 



LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. IOI 

Back to the burning shaft he flies : 

There bounding pulses fail; 
The light forsakes his lifted eyes ; 

The glowing cheek is pale. 

With wheeling, whirling, hungry flame, 

The seething shaft is rife : 
Where solid chains drip liquid fire, 

What chance for human life ? 

To die with those he hoped to save, 
Back, back, through heat and gloom, 

To find a wall ! and Death and he 
Shut in the larger tomb ! 

He pleaded to be taken in 

As closer rolled the smoke: 
In deathful vapors they could hear 

His piteous accents choke. 



102 LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 

And they, with shaking voice, refused ; 
And then the young heart broke. 

Oh love of life ! God made it strong, 

And knows how close it pressed ; 
And death to those who love life least 

Is scarce a welcome guest. 

f 

One thought of the poor wife, whose head 
Last night lay on his breast : 

A quiver runs through lips that morn 
By children's lips caressed. 

These things the sweet strong thoughts of 
home, — 

Though but a wretched place, 
To which the sad-eyed miners come 

With Labor's laggard pace, — 



LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. IO3 

Remembered in the cavern gloom, 
Illume the haggard face, — 

Illumed their faces, steeled each heart. 

O God ! what mysteries 
Of brave and base make sum and part 

Of human histories ! 
What will not thy poor creatures do 

To buy an hour of breath ! 
Well for us all some souls are true 

Above the fear of death ! 

He wept a little, — for they heard 

The sound of sobs, the sighs 
That breathed of martyrdom complete 

Unseen of mortal eyes, — 
And then, no longer swift, his feet 

Passed down the galleries. 



104 LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 

He crept and crouched beside his mule, 

Led by its dying moan : 
He touched it feebly with a hand 

That shook like palsy's own. 
God grant the touch had power to make 

The child feel less alone ! 

Who knoweth every heart, He knows 
What moved the boyish mind ; 

What longings grew to passion-throes 
For dear ones left behind ; 

How hardly youth and youth's desires 
Their hold of life resigned. 

Perhaps the little fellow felt 
As brave Horatius thought, 

When for those dearer Roman lives 
He held his own as nought. 



LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. IC>5 

For how could boy die better 

Than facing fearful fires 
To save poor women's husbands 

And helpless children's sires ? 

Death leaned upon him heavily ; 

But Love, more mighty still, — 
She lent him slender lease of life 

To work her tender will. 

He felt with sightless, sentient hand 

Along the wall and ground, 
And there the rude and simple page 

For his sweet purpose found. 

O'erwritten with the names he loved, 
Clasped to his little side, 



106 LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN. 

Dim eyes the wooden record read 
Hours after he had died. 



Thus, from all knowledge of his kind, 
In darkness lone and vast, 

From life to death, from death to life, 
The little hero passed. 

And, while they listened for the feet 
That would return no more, 

Far off they fell in music sweet 
Upon another shore. 



LOVE'S HOME. 

My little room is softly lit 

And tinted by the moon's fair beam : 
'Mid silence shadows dimly flit 

As in the vagueness of a dream. 

The passing hours I give no heed : 
What matters it how fast they speed ? 
Full long enough the night will be 
For solitary thought of thee. 

Gently gliding o'er the wall, 
Moonbeams on my pillow fall, 

107 



108 love's home. 

Slumber's promise in the ray ; 
But I turn my head away, 
Longing for the sweeter rest 
On the pillow of thy breast. 

In thine arms so kindly folded, 
To thy heart so warmly pressed, 

By thy lips in kisses moulded 
Mine so tenderly caressed. 



Ah ! how swiftly doth thy heart 
Hurry 'neath my listening ear ! 

Noble, faithful, generous heart, 
Hurries it that I am near? 

While t6 clasping fingers' ends 

Fast its thrilling current sends 
Gentle force to hold me here. 



love's home. 109 

Where the heart is, there is home ; 

Where the home is, there is rest. 
Well thou knowest, ere I speak, 
Where the home my heart would seek : 

Thus, upon thy faithful breast, 

Here, and only here, I rest. 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

My Liebling's trustful prayers were said : 
She lay at peace in her guileless bed, 
As Christmas Eve like a dream came down, 
And lights peeped out in the distant town. 

The deepening sky, as the day grew dim, 
Blossomed with stars from rim to rim ; 
And past my window, narrow and brown, 
The lone road fled to the lighted town. 

I sat alone by the fire, and sewed*. 

My happy heart like the embers glowed. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I I I 

Ah*! mothers can guess what fancies rose, 
And slid with my needle in Liebling's 
clothes. 

Was that a sigh of the wind grown still, 
So softly breathed between door and sill ? 
Was it a step on the entry-floor ? 
Nay ; for at nightfall I barred the door. 

I smiled ; yet my startled heart beat high : 
To cheer it I crooned a lullaby. 
Again, like a child's light step, that sound ! 
"Liebling?" I murmured, and turned around. 

Oh ! was it angel or mortal child, 
With gaze so joyous and mien so mild, 
Who stood one moment close to my chair, 
Then flitted on to the chamber-stair ? 



112 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

" Oh, wake, dear Liebling ! " I heard her call: 
" It's time to dress for the children's ball. 
'Run, Cinderella,' they said; 'be quick! 
Let's hear those little glass slippers click 

" ' Like chirping birds on the sparkling snow : 
Oh, run, run, run ! and let Liebling know, 
With music and dance and flowers and light 
We're coming to keep the Children's Night.' 

"Make haste, dear Liebling: they'll soon be 

here ; 
For, though I ran like the hunted deer, 
The wind has harnessed his fleetest span, 
And they're coming fast as ever they can." 

She paused and listened, and overhead 
I caught the swiftest, airiest tread; 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 113 

And then, like St. Agnes, hushed and sweet, 
Her golden tresses loosed to her feet, 

Perfect as life, and silent as death, 

As one in a muse too deep for breath, 

I saw my beautiful Liebling stand, 

One stocking hung from her dimpled hand. 

Soft bosom and arm and pearl-white side 
Shone where her night-dress parted wide. 
Cinderella kissed the rose-leaf cheek, 
And the parted lips that they might speak, 

And the lidded eyes that they might see. 
Then Liebling laughed, and the laugh was glee ; 
And "Tell me, Cinderella," she cried, 
" Shall I wear glass shoes, and be Prince's 
bride ? " 



114 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

In wonder I saw my cottage-walls 
Tremble, and change into palace-halls, 
Where fountains plashed, and pillared spaces 
Bloomed with beauty of children's faces. 

Children's voices through windy hushes 

Swelled like the garden-song of thrushes : 

To hear them laugh, and to hear them 

sing, 
Was like a thousand robins in spring. 

My own little Liebling, like the rest, 
As gayly played, was as brightly dressed 
In dainty robes as were ever planned 
By the head modiste of Fairyland. 

They were cloth-of-rainbow, finely spun 
Of twisted strands of the rain and sun, 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. I I 5 

And deftly fashioned with tender care 
To leave their motions as free as air. 

In gala rooms, on the marble stair, 
There were children, — children everywhere : 
In balconies framed of silver rails 
They bent bright heads over fairy tales. 

Lightly with wonderful toys they played, 
And rolled gay hoops in the colonnade : 
The air, as they flocked in merry games, 
Was a silver babble of children's names. 

Some ran to the banquet-hall, and brought 
Sweetmeats and nuts, which the squirrels 

caught 
And munched with a nod and grateful squeak ; 
For " thanks" in the tongue the squirrels speak. 



Il6 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

Some fled with their dimpled fingers full 
Of the trailing threads of tinted wool, 
Then swarmed together in blithest laughter 
To see the kittens scampering after. 

Some made pink cups of their hands, and 

fed 
The birds with crumbles of sugared bread. 
The little ones, couched in eider-down, 
With each a doll for her very own, 

Like buds in a morning-culled bouquet, 
Clustering, gazed on the rare display 
Of sash and tunic and jaunty hat, 
Heaped where Little Dolls' Dressmaker sat, 

Herself and her ivory bench and chair 
Veiled in the " golden bower " of her hair : 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. I I 7 

Thence peeped she often with smiles that stole 
Like sunbeams into each baby soul. 

"From daintiest patterns to be had 
Shall each little darling's doll be clad," 
She said, as her scissors flashed and snipped, 
And through soft meshes her needle slipped. 

And while they waited, and while she wrought, 
The tender shining of some sweet thought 
Gilded her quaint little face ; and then, 
Softly as brooks sing, sang Jenny Wren: 1 — 

SONG OF " LITTLE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER." 

Ah ! when I was a child, at night 
Pain kept me oft awake ; 

1 A quaint and tender character in Dickens's " Our Mutual Friend." 



Il8 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

But I forgot it in desire 
To see the morning break. 



For then my blessed children came 
"In long bright slanting rows," 

With wheels of light above their heads, 
And light all through their clothes. 

I used to dress my little dolls 

Like belles I saw at night 
Flash from the steps of their carriage 

Into the doorways bright. 

But I could never fashion robes 
Of that strange beamy white ; 

And, though I tried, could never make 
Those wondrous wheels of light. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. II9 

Down, down, through the golden weather 

They bent like silver grain, 
Saying softly, all together, 

" Oh, who is this in pain ? " 

And, when I told them, they answered, 
" Come, play with us ! " and came 

So close, I felt a strange delight 
Fill all my feeble frame. 

They looked at one another 

When I cried, " I cannot play ! " 

With glimmer of their lily hands 
Folded my work away, 

And swept about me, and drew me 
Into their bosoms bright, 



120 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

Till their gentle warmth passed through me ; 
And, oh! "it made me light ! "■ 

And, when my children laid me down, 

The old familiar pain, 
The crutch, the care, the heaviness, — 

I took them all again. 

But, oh! the smell of "miles of flowers " 

Where flowers never grew, 
The tender cool of summer showers, 

The scent of woodland dew, 

Came in by the door and window ; 

And birds I could not see, 
In time to faintly-beating wings, 

Sang sweetest airs to me. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 121 

And when my blessed children came, 

And took me up to stay, 
Lo ! all the pain and heaviness 

Forever fell away. 



She paused, and rose from her ivory chair, 
And stood in her " golden bower " of 

hair : 
The children, pressing in eager rows, 
Held out their arms for the tiny clothes. 

Just then a flock of beautiful sheep, 
Slowly followed by Little Bo-peep, 
Came in by a door that stood ajar. 
"Where, where are our tails?" they cried: 
" Ba-a ! " 



122 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

With vine and brier and water-cress 
Dear Little Bo-peep had fringed her dress : 
Far she had raced over hills and dales 
To find her poor sheep's beautiful tails. 

She had spied them hanging o'er a brook ; 
Had pulled them down with her little crook : 
Ten lovely tails of the whitest wool, 
They crowded her crimson apron full. 

"I cannot make them stay on," she sighed: 
" I think they must have been too much 

dried." 
Then bleated the sheep; and poor Bo-peep 
Dropped all their tails, and began to weep. 

Now, it happened that each little tail 
Fell with her tears in a golden pail ; 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 1 23 

And Bo-peep's tears, like the hillside dew, 
Curled them all up again good as new. 

When out of the pail she saw them leap, 
Each to its own particular sheep, 
And fasten themselves, quite snug and true, 
Exactly where they formerly grew, — - 

Oh ! merrily laughed our shepherdess, 

And wiped her sweet eyes, and smoothed her 

dress ; 
While those sly sheep, concealing surprise, 
Furtively tried their tails, and looked wise. 

Robin, with strawberry-leaves in his bill, 

Gravely looked on from a window-sill ; 

Then sang, as touchingly as he could, 

" Where are the babes, poor Babes in the Wood ? " 



124 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

" I know ! " cried Little Red Riding-hood, 
Trembling with eagerness where she stood : 
" ' They sobbed and sighed and bitterly cried/ 
Poor little things ! but they never died. 

" It happened to-day, when on my way 
To grandma's cot in the forest gray, 
Where fairy hammocks of cobweb shine 
Over the meadows of eglantine, 

"Out of the sedges tufty and tall 
I heard two soft little voices call, — 
Faintly, poor darlings ! for lack of food, — 
' Don't you 'member poor Babes in the 
Wood ? ' 

" Oh ! quickly I gave them grandma's lunch, — 
Ripe purple grapes in a juicy bunch, 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 125 

And nice white slices of flaky bread, 
With honey of clover thickly spread. 

" Then I brought them in ; and here they are, 
And no more dead than the morning-star ! " 
She oped the skirt of her riding-hood, 
And there those dear little cherubs stood. 

" 'Twas I," said Robin, tossing his head, 

" ' Brought strawberry - leaves, and over them 

spread/ " 
"Leaves! But what did you do with the 

berries. 
You that can dine all day on cherries ? " 

Now, when Red Riding-hood asked him that, 
Poor Robin blushed, and looked for his 
hat ; 



126 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

But suddenly chirped, " Guess what I see 
In plume and glitter all cap-a-pie ? " 

" Oh, good ! " cried the girls : " here come the 

boys ! " 
In they came trooping, with gleeful noise 
Of drum and trumpet and shrill halloo, 
Just as dear little boys love to do. 

"Hurrah!" they cried, "for our Cornishman, 
Who killed the wicked old Cormoran, 
Two-headed Thundel, and Blunderbore, 
And ever so many giants more ! " 

Jack showed them the cap that made him wise, 
The coat that hid him from giants' eyes, 
His sword that would cut the toughest things, 
The shoes of swiftness that gave him wings. 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 127 

Then — little Aladdin rubbing his lamp — 
The children peeped into caverns damp 
Where tinkling showers of gems untold 
Poured into rivers of liquid gold, 

And precious stones of every clime 
Sparkled like eyes in the gliding slime, 
And fountains bubbled from crystal wells, 
And trees bore blossoms of pearly shells. 

They saw far down how the hardy gnomes 
Delve in the heart of their fiery homes. 
Beautiful horses, with gentlest neigh, 
Coal-black, cream-colored, white, and bay, 

Shook their gay trappings, and pawed the 

ground ; 
While delicate wood-nymphs, daisy-crowned, 



128 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

Mounted, and, sounding sweet Echo's horn, 
Sped to the chase by the tasselled corn. 

Ay, from the Dish that ran after the 

Spoon, 
To the very Cow that jumped over the Moon, 
To the Genii of the Lamp and Ring, 
They showed the dear children every thing. 

Jack's cousin, Jack of the famous Stalk, 
Hearing the glee of laughter and talk, 
Ran down his green ladder with the Hen 
That laid the Gold Eggs for gentlemen. 

The little girls made a nest of fleece ; 
And, while she laid them an egg apiece, 
Jack, rumpling his hair to look more bold, 
Such tales of delightful terror told ! 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 1 29 

And one that every good child believes, 
Of Ali Baba and Forty Thieves ; 
And one no child can doubt in the least, 
Of darling Beauty and her kind Beast. 

And, when he had done, the children saw — 
Her fair hand clasped in old Bruin's paw — 
The loveliest maiden ever seen 
Drive up in the coach of their Fairy Queen. 

Under the holly-bough's berry-flame, 

Into the palace parlor, they came. 

" We're late," she said; " but dear Beast felt 

ill, 
And waited to take a dragon-pill ! 

" So pray don't mind his looking yellow, — 
Poor Beast! — for he's a noble fellow." 



130 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

Kindly the children replied, but gazed, 
A little frightened, and much amazed. 

Beast took a rose from his grizzly vest, 
Kissed it, and laid it in Beauty's breast. 
"I freely give back the price of life: 
Farewell ! since thou canst not be my wife," 

He said, and leaned on his paw, and 

sighed. 
"Just like the story!" the children cried. 
When Beauty asked them what she should 

do, 
They all cried, " I would, if I were you ! " 

She laughed ; and, turning, she kissed him 

quick : 
Down fell the bear-skin in wrinkles thick ; 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I3I 

And forth stepped, splendidly dressed and tall, 
The handsomest fellow at the ball ! 

Then some one slyly called for King Cole, 
With his fiddlers three, and his pipe and bowl : 
The court musicians, taking the hint, 
All began tuning, with eyes asquint. 

The Prince came blithely to Liebling's side. 
Quoth he, " Cinderella is our bride ; 
But" — and he smiled like a prince upon her — 
" Liebling is chosen first Maid of Honor ; 

And all the court chamberlains have said 

The Prince shall lead the dance with that 

maid." 
And away the Prince with Liebling stepped : 
The rest in circles around them swept. 



132 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

As the court musicians softly played, 
As wide and wider the circles swayed, 
And sweeter the silver cymbals rung, 
The Prince made sign, and the Princess 
sung : — 



CINDERELLA S SONG. 

Once there were three sisters : 
They were very wise and fair : 

They kept their hands like lilies, 
And powdered oft their hair. 

One winter's night the sisters 
Loudly began to call, — 

"Oh, hurry, Cinderella, 

And dress us for the ball ! " 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 1 33 

Poor Cinder's hair was lying 

Thick in a golden curl : 
Her sisters pulled it, crying, 

" Ugh ! what an ugly girl ! " 

She drew the lacings tighter; 

She draped the lovely shawl ; 
She rubbed the jewels brighter ; 

She sweetly served them all. 

Then came the Prince's carriage : 

Away the sisters rolled. 
"Dear me!" sighed little Cinder, 

" How dark it is, and cold ! " 

She raked the lifeless ashes ; 
She saved the bits of coal ; 



134 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

Tears on her golden lashes, 
And longing in her soul. 

" My stars and silver garters ! " 
Cried a glad voice and sweet. 

In whirled a queer old woman 
Out of the windy street. 

She waved her wand ; and Cinder, 
Dressed in a robe of green, 

Sat in a pumpkin carriage 
Fit for a royal queen. 

Her blue eyes shone like dewdrops ; 

Her lovely golden curls 
Danced on her pretty shoulders ; 

Her throat was clasped with pearls. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I 35 

"Oh, joy! what joy!" cried Cinder. 

The dame* said, " Kiss me, sweet ! " 
And drew such tiny slippers 

Of glass on Cinder's feet ! 

Six white mice in fairy's trice 

Six milk-white steeds became. 
"If the Prince has eyes, he'll lose 

His heart," said little dame. 



" I did ! " cried the Prince ; and off he 

rushed, 
And kissed his bride till she finely blushed ; 
While Liebling, panting in dance-delight, 
Still stepped the measure with all her 

might. 



I36 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

" Oh, look ! " cried Liebling ; and, lo ! the 

floor 
Changed in their midst to a dewy moor ; 
And there, with her brown feet bare and 

wet, 
Sang and danced little Fanchon Fadet. 



THE SHADOW-DANCE SONG. 

I dance in the pleasant meadow, 
In the fresh and waving grass ; 

And the arms of my own Shadow 
Clasp me lightly as I pass. 

They tell me I am so ugly, 

No peasant will dance with me ; 

That I'm too bold and naughty. 
I know not if it be. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 1 37 

But my Shadow's not so haughty : 

The moor is a ballroom free : 
All day, all night, my heart is light ; 

For the good God loveth me. 

We trip it so well together, 

My still brown Shadow and I, 
That up from the sweet wild heather 

The bees and the birdlings fly. 

Oh ! nearer and nearer coming, 
They hum and twitter and wheel : 

" Zit-zee ! " laugh the bees, low hum- 
ming; 
" Twit-twee! what a jolly reel ! " 

Skip, skip! comes Monsieur Grasshopper; 
Hop ! comes dear little Cricket : 



I38 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

Only tricksy Will-o'-the-wisp 
Hides his lamp in the thicket. 

Ever my Shadow awakes me 
When the day is scarce begun ; 

Close, close, round my waist he takes me : 
"Come out," he cries, "in the sun. 

"Come out to our dance in the sun. 

The dew is lingering yet : 
Are you ugly or fair, all's one 

To me, my Fanchon Fadet." 

So my Shadow and I we kiss 

In our veil of flying hair ; 
Or we dance, or we float like this, 

He follows me everywhere. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 1 39 

She ceased, and out of the vanished moor 
Sprang like a fawn to the marble floor ; 
She fled, and the laughing children chased ; 
She laughed, in their eager arms embraced. 

And "Tell us how you do it!" they cried. 
At their lips the merry accents died : 
They gazed at each other, breathless, pale : 
What meant that low and piteous wail ? 

" A child in pain on the Children's Night ! 
We will bring her in to joy and light." 
They flew to open the doors, and stood 
Peering into a lonesome wood. 

The wind blew in with a gusty sigh, 
And again they heard that mournful cry, 
And saw in the gloom what seemed an elf 
Tugging a bucket as big as herself. 



140 THL CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

She wept as she struggled on alone ; 

Her poor feet bled from the bruising stone ; 

Her tatters clung to her chill and wet : 

" Oh, what shall I do ? " sobbed no one's pet. 

They ran to her, and so softly said, 
As they led her in, " Don't be afraid: 
You shall stay with us, and be our pet : 
We will take care of you, little Cosette. 1 

See ! Here are your clothes all sewed with 

flowers, 
And shoes with spangles on just like ours; 



1 In " Les Miserables," Cosette, book iii., chap, v., Victor Hugo intro- 
duces in one of his most vivid pictures the infant Cosette alone at night 
in a gloomy wood, thrice overcome with childish terror of the dark, the 
burden of a great bucket of water which she can scarcely lift, and the fear 
of the Thenardiess if she does not return with the water speedily. This 
scene is now being effectively presented on the American stage in the play 
of " Cosette " as dramatized by Victor Hugo's son. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I4I 

And you shall have saucer-pies and tarts, 
And play be our little Queen of Hearts ! " 

The very kittens, to please Cosette, 

Tangled themselves in a worsted net : 

The squirrels hopped in her lap, — " Chut, 

chut ! " 
Said they; "you'll find this a capital nut." 

Cosette smiled shyly : 'twas rare to see 
How bright a little one's smile could be, 
As she clasped her doll, and curled her toes, 
For joy to be in such dainty clothes. 

Then swiftly, mistily stealing o'er, 
A silver sheen enamelled the floor : 
The same glad magic that instant put 
A glittering skate on each nimble foot. 



142 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

" Ha ! what fun ! Oh, isn't it nice ! " 

They called, as they skimmed the gleaming 

ice. 
"A race! a race!" and one little girl 
Shot swiftly out of the airy whirl. 

Away o'er the ice so clear and blue, 
Like a blithesome bird, that maiden flew : 
Her scarlet kirtle and snooded hair 
Like plumage gleamed in the frosty air. 

Once, twice, and thrice, and the race was done, 

And twice had the scarlet kirtle won. 

" Bravo ! bravo ! but who can it be ? " 

"My skates shall answer you," murmured she. 

She poised ; then, leaning with flexile grace, 
In curves, like meshes of dainty lace, 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 143 

Wrote with her skates, as they flocked to 

see, 
Three radiant letters, — M. M. D. ! l 

" Welcome ! " they cried in a ringing tone: 
" It's darling Gretel ! we might have known." 
" Hark ! what is that ? " she whispered : and, lo ! 
The ice had vanished ; and to and fro, 

Gliding their flowering banks between, 
The beautiful leaping waves were seen 
To softly circle a fair green isle 
That basked in the summer's tender smile; 

And there, with whisper and foam and swirl, 
They parted in winding steps of pearl. 



1 Mary Mapes Dodge, author of the charming story of u Hans Brinker, 
or The Silver Skates," of which little Gretel is the heroine. 



144 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

A lovely child on that winding stair 
Sat gathering lilies for her hair. 

One hand through her glistening tresses slipped, 
And one in the gliding wave she dipped. 
The reeds kissed over her dimpling knee 
As she warbled a song of the sea: — 

undine's song. 

All in the rosy- 
Red morning hours 

They bade me to climb 
The coral towers. 

"Alight," said they, 

" On yon bank of flowers. 

Here are the rings 

For your bridal wrought, — 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I45 

This for the bridegroom, 

And this for you : 
For gems like these must 

That cave be sought 
That lieth deepest 

In ocean's blue. 
Farewell, fisherman's 

Lowly daughter ! 
Farewell, Sir Huldbrand's 

Beautiful bride ! 
Nevermore may you 

Roam the water, — 
A castle's lady, 

A husband's pride. 
The Wave will obey 

Your light control : 
But you will be changed ; 

Will have a soul ! " 



I46 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

I listened ; I laughed ; 

I lightly sighed. 
"And what is it like 

To be a bride ? 
And what is a soul ? " 

I merrily cried. 
But only " Farewell ! " 

The Wave replied. 



The children called her. Gayly after, 
In sweet roulade, came Undine's laughter. 
She lifted her hands : a fairy bow 
From her rosy fingers seemed to flow. 

Then lightly, with twinkling feet, she ran 
O'er its tremulous, soft, seven-tinted span ; 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 147 

Leaped from vanishing arch and water 
Just as the eager children caught her. 

" Dear Undine, say, is it nice to be 
The little Crown Princess of the sea ? " 
They paused, and, clustering close, they gazed, 
With beating hearts and sweet looks upraised. 

Above them swelled a menacing sound 
As of hoofs that tramped on hollow ground : 
Oh ! strange was that gallop in the air ; 
For they saw not horse nor rider there ! 

But Undine looked at them archly grave. 
"You must know," she said, "that to the 

Wave, 
From Zephyr's whisper to Tempest-tone, 
The subtlest secret of Air is known. 



I48 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT, 

"By viewless steeds when the air is pawed, 
We know that Elf-land rideth abroad : 
Some child has escaped their evil power, 
And will be with us this very hour." 

With many a gleaming swoop and wheel 
The doves flew down from the snowy ceil : 
They seemed to know dear Undine, and sung 
Something to her in an unknown tongue. 

She touched them with soft and loving hand. 
" Yes ; but the children can't understand, 
Dear doves," she said : " they have never 

heard 
That you are truly the children's bird. 

"Dear children, the little doves can hear 
Farther than any with mortal ear : 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I49 

They have seen the Elves, and they have heard — 
But listen: I'll ' tell you every word:" — 

THE DOVES' SONG. 

Not frae the summer-cloud, 

And not frae the sea, 
See we thy winsome guests 

Hastening to thee. 
Far down the dark glen — ■ nay, 

It is na the same 
"Where late in the gloamin' 

'Kilmeny' came hame." l 
Yet bonny Kilmeny, 

Sae pure and sae calm, 
She leads little Alice, 

To shield her frae harm. 

1 The little heroine of the Ettrick Shepherd's beautiful poem. 



150 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

O'er heather of Eildon, 

Sae purple and sweet, 
We can hear the faint fa' 

O' their lissome feet. 
Ye ken the sad story, 

As auld as the day 
True Thomas the Rhymer 

Was elved away ; 
How lost 'Alice Learmont/ 1 

Of far Ercildoun, 
Lay under the fir-trees, 

'Twixt starlight and dawn, 
In her fond mother's arms, 

In an elfin swoon. 
How that mother embraced 

Beast, serpent, and flame, 
Yet held fast her darling 

1 Mrs. Dinah Mulock Craik's pathetic story of the fairy changeling. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 151 

In God's holy name, 
Till, the elf-charm passing, 

Her child in the morn 
Lay pure on her bosom 

As when she was born. 
Hark ! festal bells ringing 

So faintly, so clear ! 
Ah ! whom are ye bringing, 

So lovely, so dear ? 
While festal doors, swinging, 

Seem sighing, " Here, here ! " 



The air grew sweet with bloom of heather ; 
And there, like lilies, leaned together 
Bonny Kilmeny with "een sae mild," 
And Alice, the love-saved elfin-child. 



152 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

Sweet was their gentle welcome, and oft 
Their lips were greeted in kisses soft. 
" Supper must be 'most ready, I think : 
Just hear how the spoons and glasses clink ! " 

They said, and turned to the banquet-hall, 
When a dreadful roar dismayed them all. 
Before them opened a forest lane ; 
And toward them rushing, with bristling mane, 

Came a hungry lion, lean and wild ; 
And on him rode a beautiful child. 
" Fear not," said Kilmeny. 1 O'er the sill 
The monster plunged with a hungry will. 

And yet not one little heart did quake : 
All trusted the word Kilmeny spake. 



1 In the Ettrick Shepherd's poem, the child Kilmeny has power over 
the wild beasts, who become tame and gentle in her presence. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 1 53 

The lion leaped to Kilmeny's side : 
He gazed on her, and his fury died. 

He knelt, — for he could no longer stand, — 
" And cowered aneath her lily hand/' 
She held her arms to the little one, 
Who sat so calm on her dangerous throne. 

The little one nai'vely raised her head : 
" Me velly, velly hungy," she said, 
And down by the lion's shaggy lock 
Slid in one shoe and a ragged frock. 

Her bosom nestled a dewy rose 
That made her tatters seem lovely clothes : 
The soft pearl ring that little one wore 
With love-light covered her o'er and o'er. 



154 THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. 

Wondering whence the little one came, 
They gathered around, and asked her name. 
In her tiny hands she tossed a wreath, 
And thus she sang as she danced be- 
neath : — 

betsinda's song. 1 

Little lion was my brudder ; 

Great big lioness my mudder : 

Neber heard of any udder. 

But I can dance, and I can sing ; 

I dot a wed wose and pearly wing ; 

And I can do all sorts of ting. 

Dere, dat's all : 'n I'm glad me's done : 

P'ease dive a dood dirl nice plum-bunn. 



1 The child-heroine of Thackeray's inimitable fairy romance, "The 
Rose and the Ring." 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 1 55 

"It's little Betsinda!" they cried. " Ha, ha! 
Welcome, little Highness of Crim-Tar " — 
That moment, with swift and noiseless slide, 
The doors of the banquet-hall rolled wide. 

With snowy linen, and sweet white bread, 
And fruits and flowers, were the tables 

spread. 
Curds and whey and a silken tuffet 
Were specially placed for little Miss Muffet. 

A Christmas plum-pie at one corner 
Waited the thumb of little Jack Horner. 
The dining-chairs were of down and silk. 
A slender fountain of sweet new milk 

Rose from the centre, and, curving, poured 
Its foamy streams in each carven gourd. 



156 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

When all the children were seated there, 
The lion came to Kilmeny's chair. 

Oh, how the children laughed when they saw 
The lion supping with spoon in paw ! 
"Oh, see!" sang little Betsinda, "see!" 
And, lo! a wonderful Christmas-tree 

Rose from the floor with a rustling noise, 

Its green arms fringed with candles and 

toys. 
With ringing hoof and jing-jing-j ingle, 
In reindeer sleigh, came good Kris Kringle. 

Out hopped he in cap and jacket white; 
"Hurrah! ha, ha! for the Children's Night! 
A merry Christmas, my pets ! " cried he, 
And followed his cap to the top of the tree. 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 1 57 

" Hurrah ! ha, ha ! what under the sun ! 
Why, here are presents for every one ! — 
A cymar of lilies white and chaste 
For bonny Kilmeny's slender waist ; 

" For little Undine a soul is sent, 
Full of all gladness and sweet content ; 
For little Fanchon, so brave and true, 
This fadeless necklace of drops of dew ; 

" These silver skates for Gretel the good ; 
For darling Beauty, an azure snood ; 
For Cinderella, a crystal — muff ; 
For the Prince, he has her, — and that's 
enough ; 

" For Alice Learmont, a spotless dove, 
And the memory of a mother's love; 



I58 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

For little Betsinda, another shoe, — 
Perhaps she can dance as well in two ; 

"For little Liebling, in cloth of gold, 

A wonderful book, in which is told — 

But locked, my dears, till the morrow's 

light — 
The history of the Children's Night. 

"And now, my pets, for the mirror-show: 
I'm master of magic, as you know. 
My mirror is small, but deep and clear : 
I promise you'll see strange things appear." 

They gazed ; and far in the mirror grew 
The vision of one whose life was true, 
By his noble air, the simple grace 
That beamed from his careworn, gentle face. 



THE CHILDREN S NIGHT. I 59 

He speaks : for a darling on his breast 
Looks up listening, is closer pressed ; 
While upturned listening children's faces 
Girdle his knees with tender graces. 

On a white rose that touches the sill 
The loveliest rose-elf rocks at will, 
And from chair to keyhole skips and floats 
The red-capped Nis with his bowl of groats. 

And, dimly veiled in her long bright hair, 
The sea-maiden leans on the speaker's chair : 
Poor maid, with the gaze of cooing dove, 
So happy in being dumb for love ! 

The children gazed in a breathless pause. 
" Do you know him ? " whispered Santa 
Claus. 



l6o THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

" Ah, do we know him ! dearest of men ! 
God bless our Hans Christian Andersen ! 

" The children's own friend!" they cried. 

"Amen!" 
Said Santa, low and devoutly : then 
Over the vision's sweet face there came 
The smile as of one who hears his name 

Breathed in a blessing truly his own ; 
And the children heard in loving tone 
Those sweetest words to little ones given, — 
"For of such is the kingdom of heaven." 

Listening, they saw the bright vision pass, 
And Santa Claus shut the magic glass, 
Then with his little finger lock it, 
And stow it deep in his fur pocket. 



THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. l6l 

" Now for our ride o'er the starlit snow ! 
Stretch, little sleigh, and away we'll go!" 
At that the sleigh grew long as a car, 
With lanterns that twinkled clear and far. 

The reindeer were decked with tiny chimes 
That cheerly tinkled " Good times ! good 

times!" 
He lifted them in, and far away 
The children rode in Kris Kringle's sleigh. 



Twas late when I stole up stairs and 

hid 
The wonder-book in her coverlid, 
And with simple gifts her stockings filled, — 
My Liebling, loving and gentle-willed. 



l62 THE CHILDREN'S NIGHT. 

As morn drew nigh with its lighter rest, 

I heard a rustle in Liebling's nest : 

Yet dreaming, she clasped her book, and smiled. 

" God give thee merry Christmas, my child ! " 



THE PRISONER. 

For years upon his dungeon-floor 
He sat, and counted o'er and o'er 
The hopeless links, that, grim and fast, 
Chained out the Future and the Past, 
Trailing in rugged ruthless twist 
Down to the ankle from the wrist, 
Thence gliding, like a living thing. 
To grapple with an iron ring. 
He sat and counted, vaguely smiling, 
Himself with gibberish beguiling, 
For years like this ; and then one night, 
Awaked as by a piercing call, 
Aroused as by a blinding light, 

163 



164 THE PRISONER. 

With groping hands upon the wall, 

He caught his breath, remembering all ! 

Save the hoarse rattle of his breath, 
There fell long stillness deep as death. 
Upward and fixed his bloodshot eyes ; 
His bosom strives with death-like sighs. 
He feels no hope : but one desire 
Now burns him with a growing fire, — 
To climb and reach yon window-bar, 
And, hanging thence, behold afar 
The soft pale glimmer of a star, 
Or stray white cloud afloat and free 
Upon the morning's golden sea, 
Or curling smoke of village fires, 
Or glittering tips of distant spires, 
And feel — oh nameless ecstasy! — 
Descending from the radiant skies, 



THE PRISONER. l6$ 

To breathe upon his weary eyes, 
The ministering Angel of the Air; 
To feel her light and close embrace, 
Her silent kisses on his face, 
Her viewless fingers lift his hair, 
As through his trance of helpless woe 
Her sweet mysterious whispers flow ; 
To hear, far down, the hollow boom 
Of waves that beat his living tomb, — 
The free wild waste that ever glides, 
Its restless surge and sounding dash 
Changed only for the softer plash 
And murmur of receding tides. 

He gazes, gropes, and, crouching, springs. 
His chain clanks harshly on the walls : 
He clutches wildly, clasps and clings 
To empty air, and moans and falls ; 



1 66 THE PRISONER. 

There pants a little while, and then 
Attempts the hopeless toil again ; 
And many times, for many days, 
The ever-baffled task essays. 

Against the wall, his vigor spent, 
He leans, an old man, gray and bent, 
With hands, that, locked in gusts of pain, 
Shake sullen murmurs from his chain. 
He sits and broods with bended head : 
Despair has gnawed him to the core : 
" There is no God ! or God is dead ! " 
He mutters, and looks up no more. 

But suddenly the silence heard 
The carol of a little bird, 
Far up : alighting on the sill 
With faintest whir of folding wing, 



THE PRISONER. 167 

Between the bars its little bill 
Of clearest chirp and tuneful trill 
Poured forth its pearly twittering. 

Its song was like a happy heart 
That could not bear its joy alone, 

But gushed and bubbled : never art 
Attained such miracle of tone. 

Like trembling crystal bells, each note, 
Responsive to a silvern tongue 

Suspended in its swelling throat, 
In breath-vibrations softly swung. 

It sang and sang, until the lay 

Its bounding heart could not repress 

By faint gradations sank away, 

Hushed sweetly in its own excess. 



1 68 THE PRISONER. 

He looks not up, but through his tears, 
In speechless tension listening, hears, 
A moment plumed with gentle care, 
The rustling flutter of the wing 
By which the free and heavenly thing 
Sails o'er the silver seas of air. 

So deeply sank the artless strain, 
His soul forgot the clanking chain : 
Only a shudder told he knew 
The moment when the minstrel flew. 

He casts himself upon the floor, 
His cold cheek to the colder stone : 
His heart, though desolate and sore, 
Cries inly, with a patient moan, — 
" God is, and God is love alone : 
I will have faith fore vermore ! " 



THE PRISONER. 1 69 

Hour after hour the sad one lay, 
In silence rapt, as in a swoon. 
From languid arms of sleeping noon 
To evening slipped the waning day, 
And blushed along the prison-bars ; 
Above, the glimmering Milky Way 
Unrolled its wide white belt of stars. 

He tries to rise, but only kneels ; 
For with new solemn joy he feels 
In laboring chest and falling breath 
The promise of the angel Death. 
Cold dews upon his forehead start ; 
His lips in trembling whispers part: — 

" Ah me ! who knows ? perhaps that little bird 
Has sung in distant bowers where she has 
heard, — 



I70 THE PRISONER. 

Has heard, alas ! and never dreamed that strain 
Was the one break in my long night of pain. 

" Sometimes I fancy that sweet breast of thine 

Gives nightly rest to other head than mine. 

Sweet wife ! lost wife ! so sweet, so lost to me ! 

If this be true, I would not I were free. 

So dear I loved thee, darling, ah ! so well, 

That here, forsaken, in this dreadful cell, 

I could wish only good, yea, any good, to thee ! 

I would not have thee live alone as I, 

Nor in such solitude as mine to die. 

Thou wouldst not know me if to-day I stood 

Freed from my shackles and my solitude. 

I can, in fancy, see the tender grace 

With which thou wouldst avert thy pitying face, 

Nor think one moment of the mournful truth, 

Nor deem such wreck the lover of thy youth. 



THE PRISONER. Ijl 

"This bent and shaking form, this whitened 

hair, 
This brow o'erwritten by the hand of care, 
And pale with such unspeakable despair 
As leaves death's livid impress there ; 
These cheeks with hollows scooped by scalding 

tears 
And the slow famine of the heart for years, 
In which no human voice, no light of day, 
Pierced the dim dungeon in whose depths I 

lay, — 
This is the story nothing else can tell 
Like the stern rigors of the prison-cell. 

" There was a time, long since, I raved, 
And night and day unceasing craved 
For death to reach me in this tomb 
Of loneliest silence, rayless gloom. 



1/2 THE PRISONER. 

But human love, nor tears, nor prayers, 
Can enter here, or hence depart : 
There is but One who knows or cares 
For this forgotten breaking heart. 

" But now the dreadful strain is past : 
O dungeon, thou must yield at last ! 
Would, dearest, thou wert gone before 
To meet me on life's farther shore ! 
But yet, whatever change betide, 
True hearts forever true abide ; 
And somewhere in that blessed life 
We shall be sure to meet, sweet wife ! " 

His half-freed spirit, deeply wrought, 
Sublimely poised in quickened thought, 
Lifts suddenly the partial mist 
Where memory keeps eternal tryst. 



THE PRISONER. 1 73 

Before his soul, as in a glass, 

A train of gentle phantoms pass. 

Oh holy vision ! In the dim 

Far dawn his mother smiles on him : 

He feels her bosom softly rise, 

Her kisses on his lips and eyes ; 

In her bright hair his dimpling hands, 

Unchided, twist the silken strands ; 

While he, in rosy infant charms, 

Once more lies nestling in her arms. 

The greensward in the setting sun ; 

The eager play when school was done ; 

The little girl who pulled his hair, 

And, when he kissed her, cried, " No 

fair!" 
Swift set her little buskin down, 
And pushed him from her with a frown, 



174 THE PRISONER. 

Yet smiled and blushed a moment after, 
O'er-rippling in coquettish laughter ; 

To whom he used to shyly bring 
The earliest blossoms of the spring, 
The nuts he gathered when the year 
Put on her gold and purple gear. 
Ah, how she took, with simple grace, 
His humble gift as homage due, 
And flashed across his dazzled face- 
Her thankless eyes of sparkling blue ! 

At length, most near, most like to life, 
The image of his girlish wife, — 
The graceful shape, the beaming eye, 
The warm lips parted musingly, 
The white young arms upon her breast 
Crossed in the guise of guileless rest, — 



THE PRISONER. 1 75 

They weave a dream of other days. 

He could believe his loss a lie, 

So clear her fixed and loving gaze : 

Though something in the soft still beam 
Transcends the purport of a dream ; 
And, while he feels that death is kind 
To yield such visions to his mind, 
His eyes with swift sweet wonder shine, — 
Their lifted gaze no prison-walls confine ! 

The night passed on, and at break of day 
They pushed from his cell the bolts away. 
" He sleeps," they said ; but he lay so still, 
Their hearts were stirred with a prescient thrill. 
" Awake ! arise ! thou art free ! " they cried. 
The dungeon echoes alone replied. 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 1 

AMONG THE LILIES. 

Beautiful Lucy Ashton, 

Lift up your lily hand 
To where the milk-white lilies, 

Pallid and slender, stand. 

O pallid, slender lilies ! 

Up, up from the margin green — 
Graceful as Ganymede, 

Stately as maiden queen — 

1 From " Bard of Abbotsford," in Harper's Monthly. 
176 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. l^J 

Rise like the shaft 
Of a fairy tower, 
Rise like a shaft, 
But bend like a flower 

Each snowy cup, 
Till the bubbling spring 

With dewy draught 

Shall fill it up. 
Bend, lilies, dip, 
And tremble, and sway, 
And, dipping, swing 
To her rosy lip 
The foam-fine spray, 
That she may sip. 

The lips that drink 

Young Love has kissed ; 
The Spring's green brink 

Is young Love's tryst ; 



I78 THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 

And draught more sweet, 

More pure, more meet, 

Was never quaffed 
On sweeter summer's day. 
O sun, that touched her golden head ! 
O flowers, that loved her lightsome tread ! 

O breeze, that laughed 
Upon her rosy lip, and rung 
With gentle echoes if she sung ! 
Are all thy charm and beauty fled ? 

Sweet days, soon sped ! 

Sweet love, soon dead? 
Ah, no ! too dear to pass away. 

THE TRYST. 

The deer are in the woodlands ; 
The birds are on the wing; 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 1 79 

The June hath clad in roses 

The moss-green robes of Spring. 

Fair is young Lucy Ashton, 
Waiting by the spring; 

Fair are the marble lilies ; 
Fair is every thing. 

Blue are the eyes of Lucy, — 
Blue as the summer sea, 
And full of the changing charm of the sea; 
As suddenly shy, as purely bold, 
Afoam with fancies too fine to be told ; 
Fancies so delicate, pure, and free, 
They seem revealing, above disguise, 
Her very heart in her lovely eyes, 
When over them swift, in fold on fold, 
The baffling waves of reserve are rolled ; 
And in them lies, 



l80 THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 

In place of the sparkle and beam and flash, 
A weary sweep of the silken lash, 

And vague surprise, 
That slowly glides into thought as deep 
As the deep, dark wave, whose shadows 

keep 
The sea's sad mysteries in sleep, 

Whence secrets never rise ; 
Eyes ever and always like the sea ; 
Most like when the sea, in lulls or blows, 
In a countless glory of glimpses shows 

How lovely heaven may be. 

Fresh breezes, waft 
Faint fragrance to her ; 

Beat, beat his face 

To a blush apace 
Who comes to sue her. 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. l8l 

Bold Love, stir his heart 

Till its throbs are blows ; 
Shy Love, try thine art 

Till it paints the rose 

Of a thousand glows 
On a cheek that was pale ; 
Blow, breeze, to a gale, 

With frolicsome ways ; 

Fan, fan to a blaze 
The sweet cheek that was pale ; 

Else Love will disclose 

That she knows — that she knows — 

Who is coming to woo her ! 

THE PARTING. 

O Lucy ! Lucy Ashton ! 
Listen, before you speak: 



1 82 THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 

At Edgar's coming — once — thy heart 

Sent rosy welcome to thy cheek. 
But now how silent, cold, and pale ! 
Thine eyes their trembling lashes veil ! 
Look up, O tender, downcast eye, 
That cannot look in mine — and lie! 
If that thou wearest on thy breast 

Has ceased to thrill as Edgar's token, 
Return it from its fickle rest : 

'Tis but a heart outraged and broken 
Thou wilt be giving back to me, 

If thou, that parted coin returning, 
Canst say it has no charms for thee. 

I will not take thy mother's word : 
She is too heartless, proud, and cold. 

If it be true thou lovest no more, 
'Tis by thy lips I will be told. 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 1 83 

O glowing lips that I have kissed ! 

O sweet and lovely eyes ! 
No word ! no look ! — in signs like these 

A fatal meaning lies. 

{She gives the coin.'] 
'Tis, then, thy wish, thy deed ! Alas 

That heart so false could beat 
Within a breast so fair ! I thought 

Not heaven could be more sweet. 
And canst thou really wish it so ? 
But, ah ! thy silence bids me go. 
O treacherous, fatal loveliness ! 

So tender still thy spell, 
Love cannot speak its deep reproach. 

Farewell, dear love ! — farewell ! 



He rode, unheeding, in the storm : the night 
Infolded him in ever-deepening gloom. 



184 THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 

His noble head drooped on his struggling breast, 
Where broken trust and wounded love's unrest 
Wrought in his faithful heart their mournful blight : 
Thus grief and night prepared his lonely doom. 

For Edgar, Lord of Ravens wood, 

All day in vain they sought. 
When sun was set in hue of blood, 

A stranger tidings brought. 
On yonder quicksand's dizzy maze, 

Found by his favorite groom, 
Only the young lord's velvet cap 

And matted sable plume. 

THE LILIES — ALONE. 

On earth beneath, in heaven above, 

Is aught more dear, more pure, than love? 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 1 85 

Can aught so perfect have an end ? 
Ask where the slender lilies bend. 
No more by yon deserted spring 
Close-clasping hands, eyes glistening, 
Fond, hurried vows, fond listening ; 

Warm lips, love-thrilled, 

Young hearts, hope-filled, 

All trust and truth, 

That is so new, 

Yet seems not strange. 

O heart of youth ! 

What loves like you, 

Defying ruth, 

Unfearing change ? 
Can aught so perfect have an end ? 
Ask where the pallid lilies bend. 

Year after year, o'er yonder spring, 
The wild bird floats on tinted wing ; 



1 86 THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 

The sky still drops its curtain blue ; 
The sun its morning cup of dew- 
Sips slowly, with a beaming smile 
That rifts the quiet forest aisle. 



The path where shine and shadow meet, 
Once lightly pressed by little feet, 
Is tenderly o'erlaid with flowers. 
A fading rainbow in the mist 
With silence keeps the lovers' tryst 
Through slowly-flitting summer-hours. 

A sunny beauty reigneth here : 
Its ripe perfections, far and near, 
In forms and hues and perfumes blend. 
But, oh ! more perfect, pure, and dear, 
The beauty of the young hearts' truth 



THE LYRIC OF THE LILIES. 1 87 

That kept the tryst one little year, — 

The sweet, sweet love of early youth. 
Alas ! can aught so perfect end ? 
Alone the empty lilies bend. 



HARP OF THE NORTH. 1 

(Aug. 15, 1771-1871.) 

Upon the banks of cloud-land wide and 

fair, 
Washed by the golden river of the air, 
The burning soul of bounteous Summer sleeps, 
While vernal Earth her ardent vigil keeps. 
In the pure spaces of the Northern sky 
A growing wonder thralls my gazing eye : 
I see a cloud of softest rosy light 
Unroll its beauty in a landscape bright, — 



1 From " Bard of Abbotsford," in Harper's Monthly, a contribution to 
the literature of the Scott centennial celebration in August, 1871. 



HARP OF THE NORTH. 1 89 

A broidery of mountain, vale, and stream, 
Wrought on the bosom of a captive beam ; 
With temples framed of lily leaf and rose, 
Their pillars fashioned of auroral glows, 
So matchless fine and delicate, they seem 
The lovely structure of an angel's dream ; 
And all as if that angel leaned to paint 

Her heavenly dream upon enchanted air, 
Ere yet the shapes and colors growing faint 

Could mock an angel's memory and care. 

The vision changed : the scene remained the 
same ; 
Yet o'er the emerald vale and sparkling 
river 
A curious magic, as of heatless flame 

In lambent colors, seemed to flow and 
quiver. 



I9O HARP OF THE NORTH. 

The scene the same, but wondrous spell is 

wrought : 
Awe gathers awe in heaven-aspiring thought. 
What seemed a landscape passing fair is yet 
A shining harp 'mid azure mountains set. 
The hills are hills, and yet the harp they frame ; 
The temple's pillars, strings of twisted flame, 
So fine and slender that a wandering sigh 
Would softly wake their far and sweet reply. 
The floating gossamer of earthly vales, 
Webbed in the unseen loom of earthly gales, 
Were fittest fabric for an Ariel's wings 
To start the music of those radiant strings. 

Hark ! every sense waits on the listening ear : 
The harp vibrates, and these the strains I hear, 
As by a minstrel's hand, that, free and strong, 
Knows how to woo and win the soul of song: — 



HARP OF THE NORTH. I9I 

THE MINSTREL'S LAY. 

Love is the loveliest thing in heaven ; 
And e'en to mortal love 'tis given 
To pierce the veil, and reach the ears 
Tuned to the music of the spheres. 
Such earthly love had gentle power 
To enter a celestial bower, 
And win me to its festal hour. 
A sweetness pulsed in brazen girth 
Shakes summer gladness o'er the earth ; 
A far, faint melody of bells 
My nation's fond remembrance tells. 
O thou dear country of my birth ! 

Scarce did I think the simple song 
Thy minstrel thought of little worth 

Would be remembered half so long. 
My spirit thanks thee, hovering down 
Upon "mine own romantic town." 



192 HARP OF THE NORTH. 

Since it is o'er, I would not try- 
Mine earthly pilgrimage again : 

Yet, mine once more to live and die, 
It should be to a nobler strain 

Of effort, patient, pure, and true, 

To lead the world to higher view ; 

So Faith could yield my latest breath, 

Without a question, unto Death, 

And I be sure my house of clay 

Was all of me that need decay, 

And thus — as now, when bending down 

Above "mine own romantic town" — 

Could feel mine earthly life and lays 

Not all unworthy of its praise. 

More weak my hold of heaven is grow- 
ing; 
The charm of earth is round me flowing; 



HARP OF THE NORTH. I 93 

The tender incense of the hour 
Hath touched me with its olden power. 
Once more, as one of mortal mould, 
I seem to pass o'er hill and wold: 
Swift as itself, thought takes me far, 
By wooded shores of Vennachar, 
To rugged crest of Benvenue, 
Repeated in Loch Katrine's blue, 
And through the wild and lovely way 
Of Trasach's Glen to Loch Achray. 

Still running fast by Cambusmore, 

Each wave its fellow tumbling o'er, 

The reckless Keltie leaps the ridge, 

To plunge in pearls 'neath Bracklinn's 

bridge ; 
From Tinto Hills the brooklets glide 
To swell the stream of stately Clyde ; 



194 HARP OF THE NORTH. 

And these the winds that hurry o'er 
The lonely wilds of Lammermoor ; 
The Esk and Almond, Leith and Tyne, 
As in a silver braid intwine 
With broader strands, whose fertile green 
Spreads many a blooming heath between. 



The laughters of a hundred rills 
Make music in the Cheviot Hills ; 
Only less sweetly flows along 
The Ettrick than its " Shepherd's " song ; 
And Hills of Eildon, cloven in three 
By will of ancient wizardry, 
With triple summit pierce the air 
O'er Melrose ruins, "sad and fair," 
And Abbotsford ! — no other name 
Could thrill me with a gentler flame, — 



HARP OF THE NORTH. 1 95 

Where o'er its " milk-white pebbles" speed 
The glimmering ripples of the Tweed. 

O bonny Scotland ! cliff and glen 
And brae and lake look fair as when 
A little bairn I dreamed beside 
The Tweed and Teviot's mingled tide, 
Or left lang syne the toilsome desk 
To wander by the singing Esk, — 
Look fairer ; for a spirit's eye 
Their deeper beauties can espy. 

Still does the mirth of Scottish bell 
A minstrel's name and praises swell 
Farewell, " my own, my native land ! " 
Music thou mayst not understand, 
In which the sweetest sound of earth 
Were lost the instant of its birth, 



I96 HARP OF THE NORTH. 

This moment down the ether fell : 
It breaks the transient earthly spell, 
Recalls me to a lovelier shore, 
And my brief hour with thee is o'er. 

The distant ripples of the Tweed — 

Last sounds of lessening earth I heed — 

Are lost in the celestial speed 

Given only to the angel-band, — ■ 

The power unspeakable and grand 

By which the paths of air are spanned, 

That conquers time and endless space, 

And bears me in its deep embrace, 

With motion of angelic grace, 

By flowing cloud and whirling sphere, 

Through fields of ether, pure and clear 

As gentlest angel's pitying tear, 

To perfect love and life and rest, — 



HARP OF THE NORTH. 1 97 

The tenants of an angel's breast, 
The threefold being of the blest. 



As if the latest breath the minstrel drew 

With music had inspired its quivering frame, 
Melodious shudderings shook the harp-strings 
through, 

And softly gave the spirit-minstrers name. 
Then shining harp and landscape spreading 
bright, 

Slow-fading dream of beauty, slid from view ; 
And but a cloud of softest rosy light 

Rode far and lightly in the Northern blue. 



ON THE SANDS. 

Thou hast forsaken me ! 
In these strange words my sorrow lies. 
O'er the wide sea, unrolling blue, 
Where once I sailed and sang with you ; 
O'er the wide earth, unfolding green, 
O'er all the fresh, familiar scene, — 
The mocking, fragrant, smiling land, 
The curving, mutable sea-sand, 
The shining scroll of arching skies, — 
Where'er I turn my searching eyes, 
I read the sentence burning clear 
From sea and earth and atmosphere ; 



ON THE SANDS. 199 

The words wherein my poor heart dies, 
Wherein my balmless sorrow lies, — 
"Thou hast forsaken me!" 

I know not wherefore, know not whither : 
I only know you come no more ; 
I only say it o'er and o'er. 
And yet my inmost heart replies, 
Repulsing me with bursting sighs, — 
" He is not false ! you tell me lies ! " 
Oh hapless heart ! for still it grieves, 
Still cries for you, and still believes. 

That time, that happy time, which flew, 
When I believed your love was true, 
Has vanished, — followed after you. 
Thou hast forsaken me, alas ! 
This time is dead ; it will not pass : 



200 ON THE SANDS. 

Nor can I find the self I lost 
That died when I was left alone. 
This time is dead ; it will not pass : 
It hangs upon me like a ghost, — 
A ghost that never will be gone. 

How pale the face that in the past 
Used, like a rose-warm dream of bliss, 
To redden with a lover's kiss, — 
The kiss of love ! It did not last : 
I died, and thou didst come to me, 
Where I lay dead beside the sea, 
Dear ghost of what can never be. 

I pray you, gentle ghost, depart 
For, oh ! you chill me to the heart. 
My bosom cannot bear your head : 
It sinks into my heart like lead. 



ON THE SANDS. 201 

You freeze the little hands you hold : 
You were so sweet ! you are so cold ! 
Now I am dead, you should not keep 
My poor heart from its sacred sleep. 
Alas ! you are more chill than death : 
I tremble in your icy breath. 
I did not know we breathed when dead : 
I thought with life all motion fled ; 
I thought in death no tears were shed, 
And in the grave no word was said. 

At last I see that death is -but 

A door in darkness swiftly shut, 

A dropping out of warmth and light, 

A sense of unresisted blight, 

A sinking into beamless night. 

To life and love and sight and sound 

Death is indifference profound. 



202 ON THE SANDS. 

No more sweet hope, or wild despair, 

Or gentle rest, or tender care ; 

No more to laugh, no more to weep, 

No more sweet human joy or grief: 

Only a calm beyond belief ; 

A calm, but not the calm of sleep ! 

Death is to be awake forever ! 

To love, and be beloved never ! 

To be a pulseless shadow, hurled 

Down the dim gulf that spheres the world ; 

Tranced in a maze of tintless thought, 

Where nought is found, and nothing sought ; 

Slipped from warm life's remotest link, 

Death is supremely this, — to think! 



I sit upon the wide, lone beach, 
And watch the inward-rolling sea; 



ON THE SANDS. 203 

As far as any eye can reach, — 

The sky, the sea, the sand, and me. 

God help me! for there seems to be 
Design in all this misery ; 
Something that binds me to the rack, 
Nor helps me on, nor yields me back, 
But holds me with a desperate strain 
To the full tension of my pain. 



One day came toward me where I lay, 
Rock-sheltered on the glistening sands, 

A figure of a noble grace, 

And paused by me, with folded hands, 

And grave, sweet pity on his brow ; 

But kept the silence as a vow. 



204 ON THE SANDS. 

I saw him, though I looked away ; 

I felt his eyes upon my face. 
I knew him not, nor cared to know; 
Nor could I tell if it were grief, 
Or subtler pang of late relief, 
That in the silence seemed to grow. 



I turned, and raised my heavy eyes : 
I thought their looks would bid him go, 
And strove to mask them in disdain. 
He answered me with heavy sighs, 
That strangely touched my callous woe. 
His folded hands, his bended head, 
He moved not, nor a word he said ; 
Till, held occultly to the spot, 
I felt rush o'er me, swift and hot, 
The first mad tempest of my pain. 



ON THE SANDS. 205 

I sprang, yet leaned upon the rock, 

Dumb for an instant in the shock, 

Then cried, I know not what or how : 

This only I remember now: — 

He took my hands : e'en then I knew 

The unfamiliar clasp was true ; 

His face, wherein there was no guile, 

Bent o'er me with a heavenly smile ; 

And low, in earnest accents, came 

One gentle utterance of my name. 

I could not heed : 'twas nought to me. 
I heard, as it were wounded sore, 
The sea-heart beating on the shore, 
And saw the sands reel to the sea, 
The sky swerve like a shivered dome, 
And felt the winds, borne far and free 
From frolic with the flying foam. 



206 ON THE SANDS. 

I was too desolate to care 

That love's vast patience waited there; 

But when I felt with inward start 

My cold hands gathered to his heart, 

And burning tears that were not mine 

Fall o'er them in a rain divine, 

I gazed in mute and thrilled surprise 

Into the pity of his eyes. 

He said, " O noble woman-heart ! 

Too tender, too divine thou art, 

Thus for a faithless love to break. 

Dear heart, from whom false love hath flown, 

You thought to break, and die alone ! 

But you will live for true love's sake, — 

True love, that never fails its own. 

" The small soul's little love, that stole 
The spring-time sweetness of your soul, 



ON THE SANDS. 207 

Was true love's counterfeit in clay, 

The fickle fever of a day, 

That could not choose but pass away. 

"I loved you when your joy was new; 
And violets leafing in the dew 
Are not more sweet in early spring 
Than was your beauty's blossoming. 

"I loved you for the very glow, 
The truth and fervor, of your joy; 

For love, though wrung in torture's throe, 
If it be love, cannot destroy. 

"But now, though all your comeliness 
Lies in the cloud of wan distress, 
Its rosy charm and sparkle o'er, 
I love you better, love you more. 



208 ON THE SANDS. 

"I would have saved you, — yielded life 
To make you happy as his wife ; 
Had it been possible, I would : 
Love so desires the utmost good. 

" But I am thankful that I know — 
Ay, by the pain that I have borne 
In knowing this dear bosom torn — 
What grace is possible to woe. 

"The wanness of your cheek to me 
Is lovelier than its bloom could be ; 
For under this pale frost of care, 

As blossoms under winter-snows, 
Life holds and will fulfil the rare 

Sweet promise of its later rose. 

" I hold it is the destiny 
All other happy fates above 



ON THE SANDS. 2C>9 

To be a man who shall be fit 
To win a noble woman's love. 

"You know my heart. I cannot tell 

If you will love me soon or late : 
But there is faith in my farewell ; 

And love is strong to hope, and wait. 

"This only, dear one, I entreat: 

If ever your true heart is mine, 
My waiting hope you will complete, 

And send my waiting love its sign." 

He paused, and kissed and loosed my 

hands, 
Nor once looked back across the sands. 
I clasped the hands that he had kissed, 
And went home slowly in the mist. 



2IO ON THE SANDS. 

Where Self had made me blind, Love touched 

my eyes 
With her great prophecy of Paradise. 
The legions whom we call the lost I saw 
Rise everywhere as from the depths of night, — 
Pale creatures of unutterable blight, 
In solemn groups, their faces crossed with 

awe, 
Their hollow eyes fixed on a wondrous light 
That seemed to draw them to its inmost ray, 
Melting the shadows from their souls away, 
Lifting them gently to the promised day ; 
And in their midst, while all around, above, 
The air shone like the whiteness of a dove, 
And strains of music, soft, inspiring, sweet, 
Through all the glorious vision seemed to 

beat, 
Hate, born of ignorance, lay dead — of Love ! 



ON THE SANDS. 211 

I felt the world weighed down with heavy- 
care, 
And heard sad cries in darkness everywhere ; 
And heard them, as / would be heard in prayer, 
With large, sweet pity, taking instant share 
Of the great burden of the laboring earth, 
Holding one lifted heart of greater worth 
Than scores of hopes and joys of selfish birth. 

I cared for every pain, and judged no sin, 
Remembering ever what I might have been, 
Had I been tempted, goaded, spurned, the 

same ; 
And grew sto see and feel the utter shame 
Of feebly dying, careless of the strife, 
The infinite entanglement of life, 
And heedless of the solemn claims that call 
The utmost services of each and all. 



212 ON THE SANDS. 

The days passed on until a year had flown ; 
And. when the year was gone, one glorious 

night, — 
A tender trance of dusk infused with light, — 
While Earth lay girdled in her sapphire 

zone, 
And Summer drowsed upon her moonlit throne, 
I, sitting in my window all alone 
With inmost thought, a weighty vigil kept, 
And searched my heart, and smiled and sighed 

and wept ; 
And, smiling, sighing, weeping, felt no sorrow, 
But often whispered to myself, " To-morrow ! " 

I heard, in fitful music sweet and rare, 
The tuneful pulses of the summer-air; 
And thought and listened, till I saw afar 
The passing, paling night, the waning star; 



ON THE SANDS. 213 

Until the dawn, arising pure and white, 
Leaned like a lily from the eastern height. 

I stood a moment in the lovely ray ; 
Then, like the dawn, / put the night away : 
With earnest heart, and willing, trembling hands, 
I wrote, " To-day — at sunset — on the sands." 
Tears came between me and the simple line : 
Did love still wait for its delaying sign ? 

At last I laid me down in tranquil mind, 
Gliding through gentle dreams to golden noon ; 
Then slumber loosed me, and I rose to find 
The earth grown perfect in the smile of June. 
The air was thrilled with sweetest uttering 
Of birds, in scent and sunbeam fluttering; 
The brooks trilled softly, and the summer breeze 
Blew cool and fragrant from the swaying trees. 



214 ON THE SANDS. 

I put my fairest garments on with care, 
And set a white rose in my burnished hair; 
And like one ransomed I went down the stair, 
And by the little paling mossed and brown, 
Beyond the gate, and through the quiet town, 
And reached the sea before the sun went 
down. 

There were the rocks, uplifted clear and grand 
From their gray shadows in the sheltered sand ; 
And there the sea, in softest west wind fanned, 
Rolled wide its sparkling crescent on the strand. 

Before the ruddy glances of the sun 
The filmy wreaths of vapor seemed to run ; 
Till, fused, transformed, and now no longer flying, 
They seemed, in groups of graceful shapes un- 
rolled 



ON THE SANDS. 215 

Upon the bosom of a lake of gold, 

A fleet of rose-hued ships at anchor lying. 

Already, in the old familiar place, 

My lover waited by the changeful sea : 

He turned, and, in that instant seeing me, 

Came quickly, took my hands, and searched my 

face, 
And read my heart there in a moment's space. 
Then saying low, " Thank God! " (I never heard 
Such sweet and strong thanksgiving in the word), 
He clasped me in a tender, close embrace. 

The setting sun went down into the sea, 
And one by one the stars came silently, 
Through soft harmonious shadows looking down, 
Like gentle, patient eyes through lashes brown, 
On sea and curving beach and sleeping town. 



2l6 ON THE SANDS. 

The white-winged moonlight glimmered on the 

sand, 
Where heart to heart we sat, and hand in hand. 
Too thrilled and filled with love for frequent 

speech, 
We heard the wind and wave upon the beach 
Their olden liquid love-song singing cheerly : 
The wind ran down the shore with furtive feet, 
On tiptoe sung, " I love you, — love you dearly ! " 
The wave ran up, and, kneeling, kissed her feet, 
And answered her, "I love you, — -love you, — 

sweet ! " 
I never heard the duo sung so clearly. 

At length he asked me, "Did it need the year 
Before the wish was felt to bid me here ? 
Or did your dear heart earlier incline, 
Yet fear to trust me with the blessed sign ? H 



ON THE SANDS. 217 

And thus I answered him : " One year ago, 
With trembling step and melancholy eye, 

A poor, forsaken creature, crazed with woe, 
Sick of a mortal wound, came here to die. 

" Day after day she lingered here alone : 

The sea-weed, wind-whipped from the flashing 

spray, — 
A moment fiercely whirled, then cast away, — 
Lay not more lifeless on the lichened stone. 

" She knew it not, but there was one who cared, 
Whose noble heart her silent sorrow shared, — 
One who believed in her, though she de- 
spaired ; 
So trusted in her nature, that he gave 
His perfect love without reserve to save 
The life so sadly sinking to the grave ; 



2l8 ON THE SANDS. 

Gave all, and left her free, and then apart 
Waited the new awakening of her heart. 

" O friend ! O generous one ! who understood, 
As only one so strong and tender could, 
And, with such stainless faith in womanhood, 
Invoked her nature to its highest good : 
You could not trust her thus, and trust in 

vain ! 
She who was dying turned to life again 
To learn the nobler uses of its pain. 

"I know I let you go without reply: 

I had no words but seemed too poor to say ; 

And, when I tried, it seemed my heart would 

burst ; 
But in the beauty of your beaming eye 
I felt the dreadful stupor pass away. 



ON THE SANDS. 2ig 

"Your tears — they thrilled me with a holy thirst, 
A great desire to live, and, living, prove 
I could be worthy of your blessed love ; 
And, oh ! I loved you, — loved you from the first. 

"Nay, hear me yet " (but now I told the rest 
Clasped warmly to the shelter of his breast) : 
" I, who had been so miserably weak, 
Was yet too loyal to your trust to speak ; 
Was yet too truly proud, too proudly true, 
To give the dregs of womanhood to you. 

"Tired of life's wounds, I longed to lay my head 
On your true heart, and there be comforted, 
And give the struggle o'er ; and yet I knew, 
While the great longing thrilled me through and 

through, 
A woman of a nature sweet and whole, 



220 ON THE SANDS. 

Perfect in culture, of all high control, 

Should bring love's answer to your manly soul. 

"And so I let you pass, yet ill could brook 
The steadfast sweetness of your parting look ; 
And from that hour, with all my might, I tried 
To put the sloth of selfish self aside ; 
And what my earnest seeking found to do 
I did, with all my strength, in thought of you. 
And when the year was done " — 

" You sent the sign 
That slid like music from your heart to mine. 
Sweet are your eyes, — so tenderly they shine 
With the pure radiance of loving thought ; 
Your looks are fair, — in every gentle line 
The beauty of your noble life is wrought. 
Surely no dream of heaven is more divine 



ON THE SANDS. 221 

Than the dear presence of a loyal woman. 
Some subtile sadness thrills a joy so fine : 
Dispel it, love, with those rare smiles of thine ; 
Make me with kisses feel that you are human. " 



Oh tender joy of love, 

Whose silent blisses 
Feel there's no heaven above 

Love's perfect kisses J 

The starry glory of the skies 

Is fair to see : 
A deeper light in love-lit eyes 

Shineth for me. 

Oh far remove from death ! 
Oh heaven, o'erlying strife ! 



222 ON THE SANDS. 

We reach, with bating breath, 
Unto this crown of life ! 

Oh far remove from death ! 

So far it seems a lie — 
The fear of craven hearts — 

That they who love can die 

Oh perfect crown of life ! 

Invested king and queen, 
We cope with any fate, 

Invincible, — serene. 



The golden feet of flying hours 
Came toward us down the shining night, 
And sweet as breath of passing flowers, 
And swift as sunlit April showers, 



ON THE SANDS. 223 

Fled on in music and in light. 
O beauty of the calm wide night ! 
O rhythm of the sounding sea ! 
Harmonious with the deep delight 
That sets the springs of being free, 
We felt your voices one with ours ; 
We knew the theme was love, and we 
Full chords of one great symphony ! 



The years have passed ; they have been full 

and sweet : 
Love maketh life and life's great work complete. 
Some time will come the setting of the sun, 
And this brief day of the long work be done. 
There will be folded hands, lips without breath ; 
But we shall have passed on : Love knows no 

death ! 



THE VOICE OF CHRISTMAS PAST. 1 

(June 8, 1870 -Dec. 24, 1870.) 

Bring holly-leaves of polished green : 

The Christmas-feast is bravely set ; 
And over all the earth, I ween, 

The countless Christmas-guests are met. 
The sunlit air is throbbing fast 

With gleeful clang of Christmas-bells : 
One smote them in the festal past 

To cheer sad hearts in prison-cells. 



1 From " The Voice of Christmas Past," a tribute to Charles Dickens, 
in Harper's for January, 1871. 

224 



THE VOICE OF CHRISTMAS PAST. 225 

The world demands surcease of strife, 
And claims the year's last week of life. 

The ruddy wine, so rare to sip, 

In joyous laugh and airy jest 
Is born upon the glowing lip, 

And wit hath wings from guest to guest. 
Yet oft o'er all is overspread 
The halo of a sainted death, 

And mirth's gay chords fall out of tune: 
The glossy holly overhead 
Emits the sweetest phantom-breath 

Of roses culled in early yune ! 

The shadow of a great name lies 
On pensive brows, in thoughtful eyes ; 
The memory of a great heart swells 
Each bosom where his image dwells. 



226 THE VOICE OF CHRISTMAS PAST. 

The carol of the poor he sung; 

The sick, imprisoned, suffering, vile, 
Had mighty champion in his tongue, 

Nor sinned beyond his tender smile. 

O faithful voice of " Little Nell " ! 

O holy thoughts of "Tiny Tim" ! 
Sound ever in the organ's swell, 
Ring ever in the Christmas-bell, 

Inspire the universal hymn ! 

O purity and truth and worth ! 

One noble spirit sought you long : 
In bloom of deeds array the earth, 

And keep his memory green in song! 

While the "rare old plant," the ivy, climbs, 
And wreathes the tongues of his silent chimes. 



EVENING HYMN. 1 

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON HIS SEVEN- 
TIETH BIRTHDAY. 

Prophet and child of God, — 
Thou who hast meekly trod, 
Unconscious of its worth, 
A glorious way on earth ! — 

Now, when the sun doth lie 
Low in the autumn sky, 



1 See Whittier's beautiful poem, " My Triumph," upon which this 
was modelled, and to which this is a response. 

227 



228 EVENING HYMN TO WH1TTIER. 

Softly, as earth grows dim, 

Love breathes thine evening hymn. 

Sweet Singer of the Past ! 
Thy tender songs shall last 
While yet one soul in pain 
Behind thee shall remain. 



Ardent to "right the wrong" 
Rose thy brave, truthful song, 
Whose sweeter words unsung 
Yet found in deeds a tongue. 

Thy better wish, unwrought, 
Still fed thy noble thought, 
And knit thy generous mind 
More closely to thy kind. 



EVENING HYMN TO WHITTIER. 229 

The "airs of heaven " blown o'er thee, 
The " glory " set before thee, 
O'er all shall blow and beam 
The sooner for thy "dream." 

Bard of a race oppressed, 
Thou, by all sufferers blessed : 
Still let thy "dream" unfold; 
Go not till all is told. 

Close to the Silent Gate 
Friends gone before thee wait, 
While they still here behold 
Thy white locks lit with gold. 

Oh, may the mists that fall 
Chill at pale Azrael's call 
Shrink from thy closing day, 
Cloud not its shining way ! 



23O EVENING HYMN TO WHITTIER. 

While singing to the last, 
Mayest thou, earth's care o'erpast, 
Tenderly aureoled 
Enter the age of gold ! 

Still shalt thou be a voice, 
Bidding all hearts rejoice, 
Until all bond are free, 
Loosed in thy victory. 

Hark! in unbuilded spires 
Bells chime ! and unborn choirs, 
Tuned to a later fame, 
Still breathe and bless thy name ! 



LOVE AND LIFE. 

Life is like a stately temple 
That is founded in the sea, 

Whose uprising fair proportions 
Penetrate immensity ; 

Love the architect who builds it, — 
Building it eternally. 

To me, standing in the Present, 
As one waits beside a grave, 

Up the aisles and to the altar 
Rolls the Past its solemn wave, 

With a murmur as of mourning 

Undulating in the nave. 

231 



232 LOVE AND LIFE. 

Pallid phantoms glide around me 
In the wrecks of hope and home ; 

Voices moan among the waters ; 
Faces vanish in the foam : 

But a peace divine, unfailing, 
Writes its promise in the dome. 

Cold the waters where my feet are 
But my heart is strung anew, 

Tuned to hope's profound vibration, 
Pulsing all the ether through, 

For the seeking souls that ripen 
In a patience strong and true. 

Hark ! the all-inspiring Angel 
Of the Future leads the choir : 

All the shadows of the temple 
Are illumed with living fire, 



LOVE AND LIFE. 233 

And the bells above are waking 
Chimes of infinite desire. 

For the strongest or the weakest 

There is no eternal fall : 
Many graves and many mourners, 

But, at last, the lifted pall ! 
For the highest and the lowest 

Blessed life containeth all. 

O thou fair unfinished temple ! 

In unfathomed sea begun, 
Love, thy builder, shapes and lifts thee 

In the glory of the sun ; 
And the builder and the builded, 

To the pure in heart, are one. 



THE FACTORY-BOY. 1 

"Come, poor child ! " say the Flowers; 

" We have made you a little bed ; 
Come, lie with us in the showers 

The summer-clouds will shed. 
Don't work for so many hours : 

Come hither and play instead ! " 
" Come ! " whispers the waving Grass : 
" I will cool your feet as you pass ; 

The Daisies will cool your head." 

And " Come, come, come ! " is sighing 
The River against the wall ; 

1 From " Where is the Child? " in Harper's. 
234 



THE FACTORY-BOY. 235 

But " Stay ! " in grim replying, 

The wheels roar over all. 
By hill and field and river, 

That hold the child in thrall, 
He sees the long light quiver, 

And hears faint voices call. 

Bright shapes flit near in numbers ; 

They lead his soul away : 
" Oh, hush, hush, hush ! he slumbers ! " 

He dreams he hears them say. 

And, just for one strained instant, 
He dreams he hears the wheels, 

But smiles to feel the flowers, 
And down among them kneels. 

Over his weary ankles 
A rippling runlet steals, 



236 THE FACTORY-BOY. 

And all about his shoulders 
The daisies dance in reels. 

Up to his cheeks and temples 

Sweet blossoms blush and press, 
And softest summer zephyrs 

Lean o'er in light caress. 
Sleep in her mantle folds him 

As shadows fold the hill, 
Deep in her trance she holds him, 

And the great wheels are still ! 



THE NEMESIS OF LUXURY. 

O deaf and blind ! in ships of ease, 
Launched gayly o'er wreck-thickened seas, 
Disporting in an irised froth 

O'er waves that moan of wrong, — 
What curse will rend your fatal sloth, 

And break your idle song ? 

Oh, hear, beneath the ebb and flow, 
The long-complaining surge of woe! — 
" Why are we sunk in deeps of care, 
While you ride free and safely there ? 
Why are our lives but waves, to feel 
While they support your grooving keel ? " 

2 17 



238 THE NEMESIS OF LUXURY. 

O reckless voyagers, beware ! 

Thy festal ships are frail, 
And voices of unheeded prayer 

Lurk thick in every sail. 
The shroudless shadows of the tide, 
Sad phantoms of the long-denied, 

Surround thee, gaunt and pale ; 
And Nemesis leans down the air 

To drive the coming gale. 

Too long, too lightly, on the breast 

Of boundless agonies 
Ye eat and drink, and sink to rest 

In languid ecstasies. 
Why does it yawn beneath thee so ? 

Too late thy startled cries : 
"Woe to the negligent of woe ! " 

The goaded Sea replies. 



THE NEMESIS OF LUXURY. 239 

It whelms thee by a simple creed, 
Of worth in faultless eyes, — 

"In disregard of any need 
The guilt of safety lies." 



IN THE GARDEN. 

There are white lilies in the garden, 
White-blooming, sweets breathing, close to the 

gate: 
Their glimmer, I thought, was her raiment, 
Last night when I came by so late. 
As a spring bubbles up in a wood athirst, 
My heart began beating as it would burst ; 
And breathless I called through the darkness 
To my darling, "Oh, wait for me! — wait!" 

But she was not there : in her window 

Was the changing of shadow and light ; 

240 



IN THE GARDEN. 24I 

And my thoughts knelt down with veiled faces 
By her bed, and wished her good-night. 

That was but yesterday, and it seems — 

It seems such an infinite time ago ! 

For to-night, when she stood at the gate, — 

The red garden-roses were all in blow, 

And the tall lilies were full of dew, 

And the deepening dusk embowered us two, 

Kindly enclosed us from every eye ; 

We were not shamed by the seeing sky, — 

I bent down in the soft air that blew, 

Full of the flutter of folding wings of birds 

And murmuring plash of streams, from the 

south, 
And kissed the sweet woman I love on her 

sweet mouth. 
And before the kiss, if I uttered words, 



242 IN THE GARDEN. 

I cannot remember: they had no place 
In that first full moment of love's embrace. 
Does the wave recall that it foamed before 
In its flood-tide throb on the waiting shore? 

But, under the trees, I remember this, — 

My hand, pushing back the leaves, touched a 

cheek 
That bloomed at my touch ; and after that kiss 
She turned, sweetly trembling : she did not 

speak, 
But raised her clear eyes, that I might see 
My heaven in their loving trust in me. 

We did not feel the sacred moments pass : 
A wide cloud rose and curtained all the sky, 
And dimmed the daisies in the long cool grass : 
We heard, but could not see, the swallow fly, 



IN THE GARDEN. 243 

And soon were hidden from each other's eye, 
So dark it grew ; but I could feel the beat 
Of her true heart with mine in rhythm sweet, 
And so, not seeing, knew my love was nigh. 



THE BLIND MAN'S SIGHT. 1 

The blind man sees a world more fair 
Than unsealed eyes behold : 

A bluer sky, a softer air, 
Its visioned scenes infold. 

Its calm delight his bosom fills ; 

He is a dweller there : 
He builds upon its misty hills 
, His castle in the air. 

He slumbers in its fragrant vale, 
Lulled by its winding stream, 

i From "The Springfield Republican." 
244 



THE BLIND MAN S SIGHT. 245 

While Memory's phantoms, sweet and pale, 
Glide through his tender dream ; 

Or, waking, wanders 'neath the shade, 
Where blooms of bending trees 

Shake perfumes through the odorous glade 
To wind-harp melodies. 

Through tinted aisles of air his gaze 

Is fixed, where mountains rise 
Beneath his castle, fringed with rays 

Of purpled evening skies. 

And oft, its mystic threshold crost, 

There greet him voices rare : 
'Tis peopled with the loved and lost, — 

His castle in the air. 



MAUD'S ANSWER. 

" Your beautiful Maud is fancy-free, 
And she will toy with a loving heart " 

So spake my sister, warning me — 
"Just as she plucks a rose apart." 

I kissed my sister ; for she is kind, 

And loves me : but, as we reached the gate, 

I turned, and told her I had a mind, 
Nevertheless, to try my fate. 

" O brother ! she's cruel as fair : take care ! " 

"Sister, I may be foolish and blind" — 
246 



MAUD S ANSWER. 24/ 

"And the rich man's son is wooing there ; " 
"But — woman knoweth not woman's mind.'* 

Cruel and fair ! take care, take care ! 

Inward echoes like birds kept singing. 
Across, through the shimmering summer-air, 

I could see Maud's hammock swinging. 

" I will tell her the truth, and take her word ; 

I will not vex her with lover's sighing," 
I said to myself as I stood by Maud 

Like a flower in her hammock lying. 

She looked at me gravely with lovely eyes ; 

Then their falling lashes swept her cheek, 
Where a flickering bloom began to rise ; 

But she did not smile, and she did not 
speak. 



248 maud's answer. 

" I am poor, and I love thee ! " The tone was 
bold, 
For my heart beat strong with the truth un- 
said ; 
But after, in face of my secret told, 
I had not courage to lift my head. 

She stayed the hammock with one white hand : 
I saw her little feet touch the ground : 

I felt her come, and close to me stand ; 

And the earth and the sky wheeled round and 
round. 

From her lap the roses fell at my feet : 

I could feel the waft of her fragrant breath ; 

The sense of her nearness was strange and sweet 
As the fulness of Life and the trance of 
Death. 



maud's answer. 249 

Then, whether with hope or whether with 
dread, 
My strength came back with a leaping thrill : 
Though my lips were close to her drooping 
head, 
I would not move till I knew her will. 

"The household art is the only dower 
I can bring, save myself, to him I wed : 

Canst thou find the roof, and earn the flour? 
Then I can make home, and sweet white 
bread. 

" Thou art poor, art thou ? Yet thou lovest 
me!" 

Her pale face flushed with a burning red: 
"Well, Maud is poor, and she loveth thee: 

So now we are rich, are we not?" she said, 



250 maud's answer. 

And faltered, all trembling with love confessed ; 

And I, with knowing I was so dear, 
Trembled, but gathered my rose to my breast ; 

And Love was answered, and Life was clear. 



FLOWER OF MAY? 

Beneath my window stands 
A figure fair and slender, 

With soft coquettish hands, 
And features gay and tender. 

Around her naked feet 

How freshly starts the grass ! 
Faint wafts of odors sweet 

Are in the airs that pass. 

Her cheek is touched with flame 
As I push up the glass, 

2 5 T 



252 FLOWER OF MAY? 

And whisper down, "Your name, 
My captivating lass ? " 

"My name is April, sir; and I 

Often laugh, as often cry ; 

And I cannot tell what makes me : 

Only as the fit o'ertakes me 

I must dimple, smile, and frown, 

Laughing, though the tears roll down. 

But 'tis nature, sir, not art ; 

And I'm happy at my heart. 

" Now, sir, if your toilet's made, 

May I ask your company 
To the blooming mornlit glade ? " 
Frank and modest little maid, 
With a pretty white and red 

Playing chase 

O'er her face 



FLOWER OF MAY? 253 

At the sweet bold thing she said ! 

" May I ask your company ? 
I know where the flowers lie hid 
'Neath the forest's brown eyelid, — 

Some for you, and some for me." 

So I followed her, and saw 
All the frosty earth in thaw 
Quickening underneath her tread ; 
While the countless buds o'erhead, 
Dipping down the beamy air, 
Blushed against her shining hair. 

Then spoke April, soft and shy, 
Casting down her dewy eye : — 
"There's one trick I love to play 
On my brilliant sister May. 
There's one flower she calls her own ; 
Thinks it blooms for her alone ; 



254 FLOWER OF MAY? 

Calls it by her name : yet she 
Owes that little flower to me. 

Flower of May ! 

Prove what I say. 

"Was it May's or April's breath 
Waked you from a winter's death ; 
Made your veins and fibres dance 
To electric touch and glance ? 
Was it May's or my caress 
Stirred you into loveliness ? 
May is coming, April's going; 
Tell the secret of your blowing : 

Quickly say, — 

Yea or Nay." 

April ceased, — a farewell grace 
On her tearful smiling face. 



FLOWER OF MAY? 255 

Then a very tiny creature, 
Exquisite in form and feature, 

Suddenly before us stood, 
Mantled like an elfin queen 
In a glistening robe of green 

In the bosom of the wood ; 
With her face, just touched with color 
Through the mist of dew upon it, 

Peeping from a pink silk hood, 
Like a floral wee Maud Muller, 
In the coyest cottage bonnet, 

In a merry, morning mood. 

Fluttering her fragrant head, 
Thus the little creature said : — 

" People call me ' Flower of May ; ' 
But it is not truth they say : 



256 FLOWER OF MAY? 

April's fingers, light and bold, 
Found me in the leafy mould ; 
Fed me, morning, noon, and night, 
Choicest bits of spring delight. 
Thirst could never parch the lip 
Having April's tears to sip. 
Of her smile she made a lamp 
For my toilet in the damp; 
And each morn her warm caress 
Wrought new beauties in my dress. 
She did all the work: the play 
And reward are given to May. 

" People say I'm passing fair: 
Tell them it is April's care 
Nursed me into graces rare. 
Many call me, far and near, 
Sweetest flower of all the year: 



FLOWER OF MAY? 257 

Tell them April's smile and tear 
Made me hardy, made me sweet" — 

"Hush!" sighed April: "May's light feet 

Glow along the forest way : 
I can see her flowing hair 
Shedding blossoms on the air. 
Shut your eyes, my darling ! seem — 

Never mind what people say — 
First to waken from your dream 

At the laughing voice of May." 



THE SILENT ANSWER. 1 

Under the skies of May, 
Out of the smiling day, 
Into the shadows gray, 
Must she be borne away ! 

Will it not grieve her ? 
Nay ; for her rest is sweet : 
Death's wondrous winding-sheet, 
Peace, in a calm complete, 
Shrouds her from brow to feet. 

Earth will receive her, 
E'en as a mother's breast 
Shelters her babe to rest ; 

1 From "The Christian Intelligencer." 

25 s 



THE SILENT ANSWER. 259 

Nor will Death's lovely guest, 
Passed beyond human quest, 
Know that we leave her. 

Birds in a blithesome throng 
Flit the sweet airs along, 
Swing the green leaves among, 
Sing : will she hear the song 

Whither we take her ? 
Nay ! ours to hear and weep : 
She doth but gently keep 
Silence in calm so deep : 
No music thrills her sleep ; 

Nothing can wake her. 

Where many graves are old, 
Unto the sunbeam's gold 
Yonder, strange hands have rolled 



260 THE SILENT ANSWER. 

Upward the fragrant mould, — 

Last couch to make her. 
Ye in the graves grown old, 
Tell us, — we must be told, 
Ere that dark bed infold, — 
Will she not feel the cold, 
Feel we forsake her ? 

Nay ! 'tis not she who lies 
Dumb to our tears and sighs, 
Tranced in Death's mysteries, 
Seeming, with veiled eyes, 

Sleep-overtaken : 
Earth claims of our distress 
Only the precious dress, 
Guise of her loveliness, 
Sainted by love's caress, 

Early forsaken. 



THE SILENT ANSWER. 26l 

Since she has cast it by, 
Suffer her robe to lie, 
Earth-wrapt from burning sky, 
Hid from love's yearning eye, 

Under green mazes, 
There to be wrought anew, 
Subtly, with sun and dew 
Thrilled from the heavenly blue, — 
Richly, of vernal hue, 

Broidered with daisies. 
There will the tender spring 
Yearly come blossoming ; 
Birds will delay and sing; 
Beauty o'er every thing 

Weave her fair phases ; 

Through the rent veil of night, 
Mist-robed in red and white, 



262 THE SILENT ANSWER. 

Day, like a Peri bright, 

Kiss the young earth to light ; 

Freshly the clover, 
Field-star, and buttercup 
Lift their glad faces up ; 
Millions of insects sup, 
Each from his fragrant cup, 

All the earth over. 



Vain seems the daily care, 
Vain the long-baffled prayer, 
Lost in responseless air : 

Will she not hear us ? 
Ere yet the lamps illume, 
Enters the twilight gloom 
Of our too quiet home, 

Hovering near us. 



THE SILENT ANSWER. 263 

Something we do not name, 
Scarce thinking whence it came, 
Swift-flowing as a flame, 

Holds us intently ; 
Stands in our midst, and sighs 
Softly, — her deep, glad eyes, 
Full of solved mysteries, 

Fixed on us gently. 

Till the enshadowed place, 
As with a lily's grace, 
Shines with her shining face, 

Faith to us giving ; 
Vision intense of her, 
Nothing gone hence of her, 
Full, serene sense of her, 

Loving and living! 



MORNING. 

'Tis early morning, and receding night 

Leaves dimly burning in the southern sky 

The airy crescent of the summer moon, 

The misty lustre of one lingering star. 

Thin clouds, the tintless heralds of the dawn, 

Come trooping noiseless, wafted from the west : 

Pale flames of amber, in uncertain gleams, 

Reveal these shadowy Ariels as they glide 

To tip the golden turrets of the east. 

From the green leaves that rustle near the sill 

Now rise the first sweet arias of the birds, 

And gentlest murmurs of the breeze complete 

264 



MORNING. 265 

The early harmony. The violets lie 
Dew-pearled in purple clusters in the grass ; 
In splendor glows the fragrant rose of June ; 
And in the odorous silence of the wood 
The stream is luminous with lilies, sweet 
As a young maiden's bosom, chaste and fair. 
No sound of human life as yet ; but Earth, 
In thousand flutters of coy waking, seems 
Aware from mountain-top to far recess 
Of her lord's coming ; and to his grand brow 
And beaming eye she yields well pleased her 

charms 
Of dew and song, and breath of balmy blooms, 
The first, fresh, tender grace of early morn. 



KATIE, THE BELLE OF GLENCO'. 

Have you ever seen Katie, 

The belle of Glenco' ? 
She has witching black eyes, 

That puzzle one so ! 
With round glowing cheeks, 

And long glossy hair, 
And lips that pout, " Kiss me, 

Young man, if you dare ! " 

The youth of Glenco' were deeply in love 

With this dark-eyed, insnaring coquette ; 

But she smiled and she frowned, 

Tapped her foot on the ground, 
266 



KATIE, THE BELLE OF GLENCO\ 267 

And then, with a toss of her beautiful head 
At all the fine things her lover had said, 
She blushingly murmured, " Not yet." 

O beautiful Katie, 
I pray you beware ! 
"Not yet!" "Not yet?" 
Ah ! 'Katie, take care ! 
You never have met 
Young Robin Adair. 

In the mellow dusk of the even 

She stood by her blind mother's chair, 
With her little hands meekly folded, 

And her round arms dimpled and bare ; 
And she spoke with a timid accent, 

A shy and maidenly air, — 
"I think I should like, dear mother, 

To marry young Robin Adair." 



268 KATIE, THE BELLE OF GLENCO\ 

In the pale moonlight, by the well, 

She stood with Robin Adair, 
And blossoms of purple and gold 

Were looped in her braided hair. 
" I have been wayward and wild," 

She said with a womanly air ■ 
" But I repent of my pride ; 

And I love you, Robin Adair." 



MOTHER'S WINTER-NIGHT SONG. 

Sleep, my babe, my darling, — sleep and rest, 
Warmly folded to my breast. 

Though the night-wind blows, 

And the still, white snows 
Fill the robin's empty nest, 
Sleep, my babe, my darling, — sleep and rest. 

Gentle slumber parts thy dewy mouth : 
Far away in bloomy South 

Little robin red 

Trills, and turns his head; 
But thy song's as sweet, little dewy mouth, 
Warm thy nest, as robin's in the South. 

269 



MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 

It stands in the great city's midst, and from its 
swelling dome 

The quivering tongues of swaying bells bid all 
the people " Home ! " 

Its portals tremble with strong thrills of organ- 
peal and song ; 

Its windows gaze like burning eyes upon the 
gathering throng 

That fill to crimson altar and to the carven 
# door, 

As all the nations of the earth across its thresh- 
old pour. 
270 



MY FATHERS HOUSE. 2*]\ 

Rich garments softly rustle, faint perfumes stir 
the air, 

As the multitudes lean forward, joining mutely 
in the prayer. 

And, after prayer, the Preacher, in raiment un- 
defiled, 

Tells in gentle accents the sweet story of the 
Child ; 

And suddenly uplooking with fixed and glowing 
eyes, 

And white hands clasped and lifted, he passion- 
ately cries, — 

" Oh, hear the children, the little children, cry- 
ing on a heathen strand ! 

The naked, homeless, Christless wanderers in a 
godless land! 

Stretch out your hands, my brothers, from your 
plenty freely give, 



272 MY FATHER S HOUSE. 

That these lost lambs of the Father's may free- 
ly eat and live ! " 

And, while he speaks, the children, too near him 
for his search, 

With pale and hollow faces fill the shadow of 
the church : 

The foul and stainful ripple creeping from the 
hut and slum 

Reaches to the holy threshold, and refuses to 
be dumb. 

The great doors swing gently outward, 

And a little child comes in, 
Up the shining marble pathway 

Gliding, woful, dark, and thin, 
Till his footsteps flag and falter, 
Failing wholly at the altar, 
Where he sinks with struggling sighs ; 



MY FATHER S HOUSE. 273 

Thence lifts hollow, burning eyes 
To the Preacher, to the Teacher, 
Who is surely good and wise. 

Every sin seemed to have touched the little 
creature, 
Every sorrow to have crowded in his breast ; 
Every want had pinched and drained each tiny 
feature ; 
All of burden on his puny shoulders pressed. 
Nor wave nor glisten in his faded hair, 

Nor smile nor dimple in his ashen face, 
Nor sign of childhood in his lifeless air, 

Nor dim suggestion of its simple grace ; 
But from the deep eyes, darkening, lifted, 

wild, 
Outraged — commanding answer — looks the 
child ! 



274 MY father's house. 

A glory as of whitest flame shines down the 

scene's cold splendor; 
From far-off celestial chorus drops a voice 

divinely tender, — 
As of " harpers harping with their harps" in 

heavenly sweet accord, 
By river of the wave of life, the "new song" 

to the Lord, 
Of when the "former things" shall pass, and 

there be "no more sea," — 
"Whoso receiveth one of these, the same 

receiveth Me." 

The Preacher hears no hapless children weep ; 

For him no heavenly voice descends the air. 
He thinks, "I will go home, and sup and sleep," 

And runs a languid hand through scented 
hair, 



MY FATHERS HOUSE. 275 

(He has a home, a supper, and a bed ; 

The child — he has not where to lay his 

, head ! ) 
The while the congregation rustles forth, 
And curves about him at the altar-stair. 

The meagre child arises. With his hands upon 

his breast 
He walks up to the Preacher, drawing nearer 

than the rest ; 
And in a voice of thunder, if they had ears to 

hear, 
From lips that trembling sunder, this question 

cometh clear : — 

"Whose house is this? I prithee, tell." 
And sweeter than with silvern bell 
The fretted nave is thrilled ; 



276 MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 

But no one hears, no one replies, 

Though all the air is filled. 
Once more he lifts the childlike eyes: — 
" I, passing, weary, heard my name ; 
And I was glad, and hither came. 
Where is your Host? He knoweth me; 

I am His favorite guest : 
And, tired and hungry, sweet will be 

The bread He brake and blest ! 

"I thought this was my Father's house; 

But now, its threshold crossed, 
I see it cannot be His house 

Wherein His child is lost ! 
It was my Father's house ; for here 

A little Child once said, — 
'Come, hungry, burdened, sorrowing world, 

Be comforted and fed.' 



MY FATHER S HOUSE. 277 

"It was my Father's house; but now — 

His homeless children cry 
And starve unheeded at the doors 

Where thieves fare sumptuously! 
For distant woes, with seas between, 

Ye have a generous word ; 
While at your very feet, unseen, 

Want wails, and is not heard. 

"And your own children's faces speak 

(A tale ye will not hear) 
The language of the little graves 

That gather year by year, 
Of little hearts crushed all too soon 

To know or breathe a curse ; 
But, ah ! their dumb, swift death for you 

Shall be so much the worse ! 



278 MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 

"Now unto deaf and blind they pray; 

But ye will hear and see, 
When, in the great awakening day, 

My Father asks for me ! " 



FAITH. 

What shalt thou sing, O Soul ! gifted with 

song; 
To whom, therefore, the pain and joy belong? 
Sit with thine ear to that great world of 

sound 

That rolls between the silences profound. 

Thou hearest Science crying loud and far, — 

" I find the deepest pearl ; on farthest star 

I lay my certain finger ; all is mine : 

I am the true, the only, the divine." 

Reason, born blind, doth (sitting unaware 

Upon the " mountain's secret top ") declare, — 

279 



28o FAITH. 

" That which I see I know, and that alone : 
There is no hidden sermon in the stone." 
While Faith, deep-eyed as Love, with noiseless 

key 
Opens the unsuspected heaven to thee. 



Franklin Press: Randy Avery > &* Co., Boston. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 



Little Martin Craghan . 

Love's Home 

The Children's Night . 

The Prisoner 

The Lyric of the Lilies 

Harp of the North. 

On the Sands . 

The Voice of Christmas Past 

Evening Hymn to Whittier 

Love and Life . 

The Factory-Boy 

The Nemesis of Luxury . 

In the Garden . 

The Blind Man's Sight . 

Maud's Answer . 

Flower of May? 

The Silent Answer . 

Morning .... 

Katie, the Belle of Glenco' 

Mother's Winter-Night Song 

My Father's House . 

Faith 



Harper *s Magazine, 



Boston Globe. 
Harper f s Magazine. 



Springfield Republican. 
Harper \r Weekly. 
Harper \r Bazar. 
Christian Intelligencer. 
Woman 's Journal. 
Home Journal. 
Boston Commonwealth. 
Harper y s Magazine. 



NOTES FOR REFERENCE TO BRYANT'S POEMS. 

Page 70. See ■" Waterfowl" See " Sella" seventy-third line. 
" 71. See " Rivulet." 
" 72. See "Ages," third and fourth lines. See u West Wind," 

which mentions the " ring-dove," and styles the west 

wind " wind of joy and youth and love." 
" 73> See poem "June," — mentions butterfly, housewife-bee, and 

humming-bird. 
" 74. See " Thanatopsis." 

11 76. See " White-footed Deer." See "Robert 0' Lincoln." 
u 77. See " Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower." 
u 7%. See u Fringed Gentian." 

" 80. See " Little People of the Snow." See u Flood of Years." 
" 81. See " Flood of Years." 
u 82. See " Massacre at Scio." See last lines of " Conjunction of 

Jupiter and Venus." 
" S3. See "Romero." See u Italy." 
11 84. See "Ages," thirty-fourth verse. See " Flood of Years." 



